


The Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock owes Mycroft a favor. Mycroft calls in that favor by offering Sherlock's consulting services in a charity auction. Sherlock and John soon find themselves at the country manor of Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III - not very coincidentally a long-time friend of Sherlock's mother -  where they are reluctant participants in her Murder Mystery Weekend.  It's a play within a play for Sherlock and John, and their roles for the weekend event bleed over into their real lives, waking the sleeping dragons within.</p><p>Or</p><p>In which John learns that Sherlock owing Mycroft a favor is very suspect, and Sherlock has a very bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Danger of Thumbtacks

**Author's Note:**

> This work is complete and will be published in approximately ten chapters over the next two weeks. Post RF, though not a reunion fic.

“Mrs. _who_?”

“Ives-Patton Smarmington III,” repeated Sherlock, frowning at John. He pulled open a kitchen drawer with more vigor than was strictly necessary. A roll of acrylic tape bounced to the floor, but Sherlock ignored it, extracting a standard straight-edge with a very loose and lethal-looking metal trim strip and a cardboard of thumbtacks. He tossed these onto the kitchen table and continued rooting through the drawer until he had fished out an aluminum geometry compass – the sort one used in school to draw circles of specific sizes. He extracted, and apparently rejected, a handful of coloured pencils, a collection of dice and a deck of playing cards. He reached back into the drawer and tugged at a roll of white twine. It was extremely tangled in the oft-used and ill-cared for drawer, and Sherlock finally succeeded in pulling it out, along with a half dozen paperclips, a book of matches and a wick for a kerosene lamp.

John stood in the doorway, observing Sherlock as calmly as one can ever observe Sherlock. The man had two speeds – comatose and hyperdrive. 

“Is she coming here, then?” John looked around the flat. Two weeks had passed since they’d tied up the Aston Martin case – well, untied it, actually. John had been the one tied up and Sherlock had done the untying. Sherlock had slept for three days, then spent two more researching classic British automobiles, which meant that for nine days he’d been bored. The flat was definitely not ready for guests.

“Where did you put the ice pick?” Sherlock was now tearing through a drawer of kitchen utensils. The wire whisk and potato masher were on the counter. He looked over at John, clearly annoyed.

“The ice pick?” John sat back down in front of his laptop. “We have an ice pick?”

“Of course we have an ice pick,” Sherlock said, rummaging deeper into the drawer. “Ahh!” He held up the meat tenderizing hammer triumphantly.

Now John frowned. “That’s not an ice pick,” he stated, rather emphatically.

“But it’s a weapon, don’t you see?”

John glanced at the odd collection of junk drawer items on the table and counter, eyes resting now on the sharp metal point of the geometry compass and the loose metal edge of the straight-edge ruler. He regarded the cardboard of thumbtacks.

“Weapons.” A statement, not a question. This was beginning to make sense, in an odd-sort of way. He watched Sherlock examine a turkey baster. “Sherlock, what – if anything – does all this have to do with Mrs. Ives-Patton Smar-whatever?”

“Smarmington III.” Sherlock sighed as he eyed the knife block but instead of examining the filleting knife, which, in John’s opinion, was the most lethal weapon in the kitchen, if one ignored the old take-away leftovers in the back of the fridge, dropped into the chair opposite John. “She won me.”

“She won you,” John repeated, enunciating each word slowly. “She _won_ you?”

“In the charity auction,” clarified Sherlock. “Better said, she won my _services_.”

“I hope you mean your consulting detective services,” said John, rather absently, as he typed.

“Right, then,” said Sherlock. He gave John that smile. It was not an apologetic, _very sorry for not filling you in on details before I go about tearing the kitchen apart looking for potential weapons_ sort of smile. It was more of a _I know your brain isn’t capable of following without me explaining everything in minute detail so here I go_ semi-condescending sort of smile.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Just get on with it,” he said.

“Mycroft called in a favor,” began Sherlock. John successfully covered a smile with a cough. Sherlock hated conceding anything to his brother. “For one of his pet charities - the Responsibility in Gambling Trust.”

“Responsibility in Gambling?” John’s eyes opened wider. “Mycroft?”

“Not Mycroft.” Sherlock frowned at John, clearly disappointed in his deductive skills. Between the two of them, there was a good deal of frowning happening. “Our father.” His look clearly conveyed that John should already have known this.

“Oh.” John looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t known that, of course. It was probably the most substantive piece of information he’d ever garnered regarding Sherlock’s parents. He didn’t even know their given names and only assumed they were still alive.

Sherlock went on, seemingly oblivious that this would be newsworthy or important at all to John. “Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III is the very lucky winner of my consulting services, which Mycroft –“ he nearly spat out his brother’s name, voice full of even more derision than usual when discussing his older sibling – “put on offer at a charity auction for the Trust. The terms were one case, up to forty hours of my time, over a period not longer than three weeks. She has _booked me_ for this coming weekend.” He paused, and John could almost see the dark rain cloud over his head. “Mycroft’s terms - and they are exceedingly generous.”

“Forty hours? What did you _do_?”

“Nothing,” stated Sherlock.

He obviously was not inclined to share, which made John all the more curious. In fact, John knew Sherlock must have owed Mycroft a very large favor to have agreed to those terms.

“So – I take it she called. She has a case for you?” John was careful to say “you” and not “us.” It wasn’t that he didn’t want to presume – he simply didn’t want _Sherlock_ to presume. Cases brought to them by old ladies with names like Ives-Patton Smarmington fell into two categories: philandering husbands, and missing pets or jewelry.

“She has a case,” said Sherlock. He emphasized the word “case” and made it sound like something dirty.

“Husband, pet or jewelry?” asked John, grinning. He couldn’t help it. Sherlock looked so...so _miserable_. 

“The Case of the Kitchen Murderer.”

“The case already has a name?” John had lost all interest in the dating website he’d been perusing. He found himself, once again, much more interested in Sherlock. He succeeded, with some difficulty, in not thinking overly much about what that might imply. “I’m supposed to do the naming, you realize.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands on his chest. “And I thought you’d be more intrigued about the murderer,” he mused.

“Oh. Right. Murderer.” John shrugged. “It seems awfully convenient, doesn’t it? Your services were on offer at the charity auction and the person who purchased them just happened to have a murder to solve. Is it a fresh murder or a cold case?” He trailed off, trying to interpret the look on Sherlock’s face.

“It’s a murder that hasn’t happened yet,” said Sherlock, frustrated, dropping his head into his hands. “It’s ridiculous is what it is. Silly. It’s a _game_ , John. An _event_!”

John blinked. This was new. “I’m sorry?” he asked, cocking his head to the side a bit. “Sherlock?”

“It’s a bloody Murder Mystery Weekend,” muttered Sherlock. “And I’m to be the star detective.”

John quickly looked down and bit his lip. Sherlock looked absolutely miserable, but John was too occupied with trying to keep from roaring with laughter to be able to offer any solace. 

“John?” Sherlock sounded suspicious. John quickly schooled his features and looked up.

“So….” John’s gaze swept over the accumulated kitchen and junk drawer gadgetry on the table and counters. “Any reason you’re collecting murder….weapons?” He raised an eyebrow at the cardboard of thumbtacks.

“You don’t expect me to wait and solve this thing until I _get_ there, do you?” Sherlock asked. “We’re to arrive on a Friday evening and she expects us to stay until the case is solved on Sunday. I can save - ”

“Wait.” John held up his hand. He was shaking his head. “ _We’re_ to arrive? We?”

“It was in the terms,” Sherlock explained, his tone indicating that John should have known this already. “One consulting detective and one blogger.”

John stared at him. Sherlock did not blink. “You’re having me on.”

“I’m to play detective and you’re to record everything. Mycroft requested hourly posts but I negotiated down to four per day – every four hours beginning at 10 p.m. on Friday night. Of course, if I solve the murder on Friday – which is the most likely scenario as old ladies aren’t all that imaginative – you’ll need to make only one post to wrap the whole thing up.”

John wasn’t sure which point to argue first – that Mycroft and Sherlock had no business negotiating over his services, that the point of a Murder Mystery weekend was the entertainment of the guests over an entire weekend and was not actually about solving the murder expediently, or that old ladies were not imaginative. They’d come across quite a few imaginative old ladies in their time together, Mrs. Hudson included.

"What if I have plans this weekend? A date?"

"You'll change them.

It was a statement of fact. John didn't argue. What was the point?

He pressed his lips together, biting and releasing the bottom one.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” John asked, a bit crossly.

“Bite your lip like that. It means you’re about to argue with me.”

 _Did it?_ John considered. It _did_. 

“I’m not planning to argue with you.” John only just managed not to roll his eyes, even as part of his brain fixated on Sherlock noticing that he bit his lip, before he launched into an argument. Sherlock noticed?

Of course Sherlock noticed. Sherlock noticed everything. It was nothing personal. Nothing personal at all.

He decided to approach the matter of the proposed case objectively.

“What do you know about Murder Mystery weekends, Sherlock?” he asked. He held up his hand before Sherlock could answer, undoubtedly with separate definitions of each of the words in the phrase. “No. Wait.” He did a quick Google search, found an appropriate site, and spun the laptop around to face Sherlock. “Read.”

Sherlock managed – just – to keep his face schooled in a neutral expression as he read the entry. John, with several years under his belt now of exposure to Sherlock Holmes, noted confusion, disbelief, ridicule and dismissal, all in short order.

“This is _theater_ ,” he said. “Derived for _entertainment_ purposes.”

“What did you think it was?” asked John, pulling his laptop back across the table. Past experience had taught him to limit the amount of time Sherlock had with his personal computer.

“I thought it was a test of sorts,” admitted Sherlock. “I assumed she would try to craft a murder that I couldn’t solve.” 

“So you understand, then, that you’ll only be playing a role?” asked John, just to make perfectly sure that Sherlock understood. “You can’t prance in there and solve the mystery during the cocktail hour?”

“Prance?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John. John lifted one back at him. “Fine. We will do this. Mycroft assures me that Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III has a lovely country estate. And bees, John! A regular apiary.”

“Mycroft sold you on this with bees?” John shook his head. Mycroft could be clever when it counted.

“I owed him a favor.” Sherlock looked away and scowled. “ I’ve told you this already.”

“That’s just it, Sherlock. You owed him. _You._ What, exactly, is in this for me? Spending a weekend at a boring old woman’s country home, play-acting with…hey!” 

Sherlock had reached across the table and had deftly slid the laptop back over. “You clearly do not know a thing about Mrs. Ives-P,” he said, tapping away at the laptop and not looking at John. “Read.” He turned the laptop around and scooted it into the center of the table so John could see it.

“Read it thoroughly,” he said. “I’ll be in the sitting room – plotting my revenge on Mycroft.”

John watched Sherlock stride confidently out of the room. He glanced at the computer.

Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III had an entry in Wikipedia?

Shit.

He read the first paragraph.

No, Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III was certainly not boring. She _was_ old, however. Seventy-two, if the information in the entry was correct.

He kept reading. 

_Oh my._

Five minutes later, John closed the laptop and slowly stood. He joined Sherlock in the sitting room, sinking into his chair without comment.

“Well?” asked Sherlock after a full minute had passed. He was reclined on the sofa, bare feet elevated on the arm, hands folded over his chest in a corpse-like posture. John hated when he lay like that.

“She killed her husband.”

“Self defense,” said Sherlock. 

“With a garden hoe?”

“She was accosted in the garden shed.”

John turned his head and stared at Sherlock. “You were on the case, then?” It was all starting to click into place.

“I was. One of my first, actually. She’s a close friend of Mother. Of course, that was nearly twenty years ago. She remarried a few years later and is widowed again now, living in a different part of the country.”

“Twenty years ago?” John was staring at Sherlock now. “You were – how old?”

“Thirteen, actually. And John, just to keep things on the up and up, you should know she wasn’t entirely blameless. She was having an affair, too.”

John was still staring. He found himself staring at Sherlock quite often. Sometimes in disbelief, like now, but sometimes in awe, and sometimes, when Sherlock was sleeping or caught up in playing the violin or bent over his phone in a texting war with Mycroft or Lestrade, in admiration. He’d hoped Sherlock didn’t know that – he was difficult enough to live with in their current odd platonic sort of relationship – though given Sherlock’s recent statement about his lip biting, he didn’t stand a chance of the admiring looks having gone unnoticed.

“Thirteen? And this was murder? The article said she took off some of his fingers with that hoe, Sherlock. And they let you on the scene to see that?” John’s voice was rising in disbelief.

“She called Mother first. We were there well before the police. Of course, I wouldn’t allow Mother to touch anything, or to get Mrs. Ives-Patton cleaned up at all. Mother made tea. She was really quite calm, considering.”

John had dropped his head into his hands. He found himself in this position frequently. He’d been puzzling out Sherlock Holmes - _trying_ to puzzle him out anyway – since he met him. Knowing that his mother had exposed him to a bloody crime scene when he was thirteen should not have surprised him in the least.

“Oh, it was classic, John. Classic.” John looked up to find Sherlock’s bright eyes on him. “He had a younger lover, of course. But the money was old – from her family. And they had a young horse trainer who had an eye for their oldest daughter. She was an accomplished equestrian….” He stopped and frowned. “You're following, John, aren’t you?”

John mentally shook himself. “Of course,” he blurted. “I’m sure it was all fascinating.” He was relatively certain that, at the age of thirteen, he hadn’t known what adultery was and was absolutely certain he had never seen severed human fingers.

“It was.” Sherlock signed and steepled his hands. “Brilliant, really.” He sat up then and picked up his mobile. “This weekend thing will do for now, but we really do need a new case, John. I’m getting bored.”

“Really, Sherlock?” John pointed the remote control at the television. “Why don’t you go put the kitchen back together before someone gets hurt on a thumbtack?”

“I’m packing.” He turned from the doorway. “You should do the same.”

“Now? It’s three days away.”

“Ahh. But now that I know we’ll be there for the entire weekend, we’ll need to plan for additional activities. Swimming. Tennis. Beekeeping. You may need to make a shopping list.”

“What, no fox hunting?” John asked, rolling his eyes.

“That reminds me – I should pack my riding crop. Oh, and John?”

John turned. He looked defeated. 

“What?”

“Your gun. Do pack your gun.”

_End Chapter 1_


	2. His Work Defines Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock arrive at the manor home of Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III, settle into their unexpected accommodations, and John learns that Sherlock does, indeed, like boys.

-2-

“I don’t understand how this happened,” said John, three days later, as Sherlock opened the closet door in their well-appointed guestroom and began emptying his garment bag, removing John’s two pair of trousers and three dress shirts first. He hadn’t seemed surprised at all that John didn’t own a garment bag. He hung them, then slid the hangers to the side.

When John first met Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III, he immediately wondered how a woman of her size and demeanor could have hacked her husband to death with a garden hoe. Their hostess was gracious, charming and accommodating. And she clearly misunderstood Sherlock and John’s relationship. 

Sherlock was counting his shirts, his back to John. “What is it you don’t understand?” he asked. “Why Mrs. Ives-P assumed we are a couple or why she gave us the best guestroom in the manor?” 

“Yes. That. The first one.” John looked at his own bag. Given the formal environment of the manor, he should have brought something nicer than his duffel. “And why you didn’t correct her when she showed us both up here.”

“Correcting her would have embarrassed her,” Sherlock said dismissively, still not facing John. “It wasn’t necessary.”

“Well, then,” was all John could say, even though he was thinking quite a bit more than that. Specifically, he was thinking that she couldn’t possibly be more embarrassed than he was, and that the Sherlock Holmes he knew had never before been concerned with, much less aware of, people’s _feelings_. 

“Is there something wrong with the room?” Sherlock had turned around and caught John staring at the bed. 

“Of course not. It’s a perfectly lovely bed...room,” John replied, only realizing after the words left his mouth that Sherlock was deflecting. He turned and strode to the window. They were on the second floor and had a good view of the grounds.

“I’m sure it’s the best guestroom in the manor,” said Sherlock. He walked over beside John and looked out over the gardens. He was oddly silent for a long moment, and the silence was just short of uncomfortable. Finally, he turned toward John and shrugged.

“She means well.”

And that did it.

“She _means_ well? Who _are_ you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Are you planning to unpack?” Sherlock looked pointedly at John’s duffel, then at the bedside clock. He did not acknowledge John’s outburst.

“Sherlock – you’re worried about our hostess’ feelings? Really? _Feelings?_ ” John dropped into one of the upholstered chairs and crossed his legs – rather deliberately – giving the impression, he hoped, that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

They stared at each other. John did not blink. Sherlock…fidgeted? The fingers of Sherlock’s left hand drew up into a loose fist, then Sherlock gave a sad sort of smile.

“There was a time – in my past – when I attempted to follow social norms.” He was staring at John, in a way that told John he was gauging his reaction so that he would reveal just enough and not a word more. “Our hostess is a part of that past. She knew me as a child, and as a young adult.”

“Oh?” John gave Sherlock an inquiring look but stayed put. 

Sherlock eyed John’s duffel again. John folded his hands behind his head. He hoped his body language told Sherlock that he was not going to touch the duffel until he got some answers.

Sherlock frowned.

“You’re alright with everyone here this weekend believing that we’re a couple?” John thought that might get a reaction from Sherlock. 

“You know I don’t care what others think.”

“Except for Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington.”

“You are aware that I will eventually win any verbal sparring game?” commented Sherlock dryly.

“This isn’t about social niceties,” mused John, studying Sherlock’s face. “This is about something else.”

Sherlock looked down. He fastened then unfastened the bottom button of his jacket then squared his shoulders.

“I’ll meet you downstairs then,” he said. He glanced at John, then at the duffel. “After you’ve cleaned up, of course.”

“I’m not leaving this room.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. He glared at John. 

John could have kicked himself as realisation hit.

“You _knew_! You knew we’d be sharing a room! You knew she thought we’re together…Sherlock!”

John jumped out of his chair and bodily blocked the door as Sherlock tried to open it. Sherlock dropped his hands against his sides.

“Mother wanted me to marry Annabelle,” Sherlock said. He reached out for the doorknob again, but John pushed his hand away and leaned more solidly against the door. _That_ was supposed to be an explanation?

“Who is Annabelle and what does she have to do with us sharing a room?” John asked, his voice as low and as calm as he could manage. He knew this – whatever this was – was difficult for Sherlock, but damnit, he hadn’t signed up for this gig in the first place, this was somehow Mycroft’s game, and would he really be able to convince their hostess _and_ her guests that he and Sherlock were _together_?

A little voice in the back of his head, one he’d successfully drowned out for quite some time, said _You don’t have to convince anyone, you know. Everyone just assumes you_ are _anyway, even after seeing you together._

 _Especially_ after seeing them together.

Well, he couldn’t deny they were in tune with each other. He’d always written that off to living together. As flat mates.

“Annabelle is Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III’s younger daughter,” Sherlock said, finally resigned to the fact that John wasn’t going to let this go. “She’s your age, John, and quite pretty. I expect she’ll be downstairs with the other guests if you’d like to meet her.”

John ignored the baiting.

“That had to be years ago. What does that have to do with us sharing a room?”

“It _was_ years ago,” said Sherlock. “And I told Mother I wasn’t interested in girls. She, however, told Mrs. Ives-P that I liked _boys._ ” He said it with such an exasperated tone, with such a pained look on his face, that John almost - _almost_ \- felt sorry for him.

“Not the same thing at all, right?” said John. 

“Precisely!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Lack of interest in one gender does not necessarily indicate an interest in the other.” He was eying John smugly. Or was he? John thought Sherlock was _trying_ to look smug. Trying too hard, actually.

“Right. Married to your work and all that.”

“My work defines me,” said Sherlock, simply and eloquently, and perhaps a bit haughtily. He looked pointedly at the door. “Now, may I leave?”

“Do you, though?” John found himself asking because…well, because he could. Because there had never been a better time to ask. Because it had never come up before – he had never brought it up himself, anyway. “Like boys, I mean?”

Sherlock’s expression made it blatantly clear that he hadn’t needed John’s explanation.

“Some of them,” he stated, his voice matter-of-fact. He nodded toward the closet. “Wear the green shirt, John.”

“You packed my green shirt?” John protested as the door shut behind Sherlock.

Alright then.

John leaned heavily against the door and tried to gather his thoughts. This situation was so utterly odd that he was entirely out of his element. Sherlock was behaving in a way he’d never before seen Sherlock behave. He was clearly intent on allowing their hostess and her guests to believe that he and John were a gay couple, sharing a room – and a bed. Sherlock had _known_ that this would happen and had not bothered to tell John in advance. 

Or, more likely, had deliberately not told him.

Because he assumed John wouldn’t play along? That he’d refuse to come with him?

_Why?_

Sherlock’s mother had wanted Sherlock to marry her friend’s daughter. Well, that was all well and good. Any mother could _want_ their child to marry a spouse of her choice. Expecting it to happen – expecting the two to fall in love – was quite another matter altogether. At least it was in John’s world. 

He pushed away from the door and opened his duffel. He stood there a long minute, thinking.

In John’s world, in John Watson’s England, children grew up and met other children at school and dated and maybe went to Uni, or joined the service, or learned a trade. Children did their own choosing, for good or for ill, and sometimes the parents approved, and sometimes they didn’t. 

But what about Sherlock’s England? Were marriages still arranged when money and land were involved?

What did this mean, anyway? Sherlock’s mother had wanted him to marry this Annabelle. Sherlock hadn’t married her. And now, years later, Annabelle’s mother clearly believed Sherlock was gay. Because Sherlock had told his mother he wasn’t interested in girls. Because she, in turn, had told her friend that Sherlock was gay. Because they had all assumed – given this piece of information – that the man sharing a flat in London with Sherlock was his partner.

What the hell?

Was Sherlock _using_ him to keep women at bay? 

Did he somehow perceive that it was better to have people believe he was in a relationship with a man – even though he wasn’t – than for them to believe he wasn’t in any relationship at all? That he didn’t, in fact, like people very much, and certainly didn’t want to share his bed, or his life, with any particular one?

He was over-thinking this. This was just Sherlock being – Sherlock.

John pulled the shirt he was wearing over his head and strode over to the closet. He reached in for a clean shirt.

If it happened to be the green one, it was merely a coincidence.

_End Chapter 2_


	3. Creating Dramatic Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Murder Mystery is about to launch and Sherlock reviews the script while John reviews his role card. He's Sherlock's Jilted ex-lover? Why is Sherlock not bothered by this, and why _is_ John?

-3-

Thirty minutes later, with the help of their entirely affable hostess, John found Sherlock in a small library on the main floor, poring over a leaflet of papers.

“Murders do not have scripts,” he commented as John sat across from him and opened his laptop.

“Wireless is locked,” John murmured. “Did you get the password?” John’s finger twitched. He wanted internet access. _Needed_ it, in fact. He’d mentally composed a rather unkind e-mail to Mycroft while he dressed and would much prefer typing the vitriolic words on his laptop than pecking away at his mobile.

“No.” Sherlock turned a page, not looking up. “Try Annabelle Lee.”

John tried it. Uppercase ‘A’ and ‘L.’ No spaces. “That’s it,” John said. He didn’t sound surprised. He _wasn’t_ surprised. Feats like this – Sherlock deducing the password – were commonplace and no longer impressed him. Then, “Why Annabelle? There are two daughters, aren’t there?”

“I don’t know Hortensia’s middle name,” Sherlock answered.

“Of course.” 

John was only slightly bothered that that made perfect sense.

“If murders were scripted, this might be a good one,” commented Sherlock. John had just finished opening a new blog post and titling it _Murders Do Not Have Scripts._ He considered, briefly, adding a subtitle. _…but if murders were scripted, this would be a good one._

“Though this isn’t actually the script,” Sherlock said, continuing to peruse the document.

“Giving you the actual script would be cheating, wouldn’t it?” John said with a grin. “Handing the famous consulting detective a cheat sheet and all.”

“It’s a timeline.” Sherlock acted as if he hadn’t even heard John. “The murder is to happen during our post-dinner gathering.” Sherlock glanced at the paper again. “Coffee. Cigars. Sherry, port,” he said, glancing at John. “The guests will be given envelopes before dinner, as they gather for cocktails. The envelopes will contain cards describing their roles. They are asked to keep these private – not to share them even with their significant others.”

“I assume you’ll be the infamous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and I’ll be his dashing sidekick?” John said ‘dashing’ in a way that suggested he didn’t believe himself to be the least bit dashing.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a half smile. He flipped to the last page. “Hmmm.”

“What do you mean – hmmm?” John leaned forward and tried to read upside down. Sherlock pulled the document away and slid a sealed envelope across to him. “Dr. John Watson” was written on the front of the envelope in an old-fashioned, elegant hand.

John stood the envelope up, rapped it against the table a time or two, then carefully tore off the top and extracted an expensive-looking cream-coloured card.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice held a warning.

“I did not write the script. Nor did I suggest or assign the roles. I’ve only just seen them detailed here for the first time myself.”

John stared at Sherlock. If this turned out to be an elaborate joke, or a set-up, or if Sherlock knew…. 

Wait. He’d known about the room situation, hadn’t he?

Damn. John didn’t even known anymore. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t. But if he hadn’t, he’d at least suspected.

“You knew about this,” John said.

“I didn’t. I’m actually surprised – and impressed – by her creativity.”

“Jilted lovers are not creative,” answered John, staring at the card. He rapped the edge on the table, then dropped it. It floated on a waft of air and landed beside Sherlock’s timeline.

“You do see the creativity in creating dramatic tension for the chief investigator? Tension that has nothing to do with the case itself?”

John dropped his head into his hands and sighed. “I’m to be your ex-lover and former investigative partner, here at my _aunt’s_ for a relaxing weekend in the country.” He straightened, eying the sheaf of papers. Sherlock held it in both hands now, protectively. “Conveniently, and not-so-coincidentally, I’m also a medical doctor. And I am not happy at all that you have a _girl_ friend. I don’t believe we parted on the best of terms, and I’m quite sure I thought you were solidly homosexual.”

Sherlock looked down. Was he hiding a smirk? A blush?

“No, of course not,” Sherlock murmured, paging ahead in his timeline curiously.

“Is it Anabelle?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Oh stop that. She’s got you paired up with her daughter. Just like the old days.”

Sherlock was not looking at John, but John was definitely looking at Sherlock. He certainly wasn’t as observant as his friend, but did not miss the amused look that flitted over Sherlock’s face.

“You think this is _funny_ ,” John stated. “You’re _amused_.”

Now Sherlock did look at him, his features properly schooled.

“Not at all.” But he seemed to study John a bit longer than his apparent disinterest merited, and when he returned to the timeline, John thought he looked a bit more smug than usual, if that were even possible. “It’s a small cast – only ten other players. Our hostess, Annabelle, Hortensia, Hortensia’s partner Susanne, a Mr. and a Mrs. Earl Biffle, a Mr. Anton Thatcher, a Mr. James Readington, and finally a Mr. and Mrs. Parker. Eleven suspects including you.”

“Ten, since one of us is the victim,” corrected John. “And you can cross me off your suspect list. I’ll give you that now.” He reached across the table and flipped over his role card. “Look – doesn’t say ‘Murderer.’”

Sherlock ignored the card. “The victim is to be a member of the house staff,” he said. “Not one of the guests. And I’ll be forced to treat you as a suspect anyway. I wasn’t supposed to know you aren’t the murderer.”

“Ah.” John made a point of staring at his laptop screen, then, in a rather sluggish burst of inspiration, began an introduction to the case in his blog.

“You’re staying in character, of course,” Sherlock murmured, not even looking at John. “You are not John Watson, physician and flat mate of Sherlock Holmes. You are John Watson – ”

“Sherlock Holmes’ jilted and jealous ex-lover. Right. I remember.”

“Jealous?”

John ignored him, focusing now on his typing, grinning a bit foolishly. He was enjoying the little rant he was writing, detailing his plans to punch the two-timing bastard Sherlock Holmes in the face if he dared to show up here while he was visiting his aunt and cousins.

“I actually was trying to point out that your role in this little drama is the nephew of our hostess. Undoubtedly, you’ve been invited to round out the party.” Sherlock went back to the list of guests again. “Thatcher and Readington. One for you, one for Mrs. Ives-P.” Sherlock got to his feet and came around the table to read over John’s shoulder.

“It didn’t say anything about that on my card,” John said. “Why can’t we just have it that I’m the favorite nephew, the son of her dear departed sister? That I’m rather a fixture around here?”

Sherlock leaned forward, invading John’s personal space as he picked up the timeline. “We’ll know soon enough – by how we're seated at dinner. Finish that and come to cocktail hour, John. It’s time to meet the rest of the guests.”

He left the room without another word. 

John’s fingers paused over the keys. Why was Sherlock being so bloody _accommodating_ about this charade? He considered a moment, turning his head to stare at the doorway. 

Sherlock had just left the room with an order. _Wear the green shirt, John. Finish that and come to cocktail party, John._

He stared at the door a moment longer, wondering again why Sherlock had slipped inside this charade so readily.

 _A case_. Damn if Sherlock wasn’t acting like this was a real case. He’d have this little mystery solved after he met everyone at cocktail hour, before the murder actually _happened._

He shook his head and stared again at his laptop monitor, fingers resuming their vindictive dance.

_Annabelle is a fool if she thinks there’s a chance in hell he’ll marry her. She’ll never come first with him. I’ve warned her, but she won’t listen to me. She’ll have to figure out the hard way what an arse is hiding behind that pretty face._

He stared at the blog entry.

_Pretty face._

Right. He was playing a role. Assuming an alter-ego of sorts for the little drama. He was Sherlock’s friend and flat mate, playing Sherlock’s lover for their hostess, and his ex-lover for this little charade. 

But it was skirting awfully close to the truth he kept pushed to the back of his mental closet, shoved in a box somewhere behind the name of his kindergarten teacher and that first ambush in Afghanastan. He didn’t need those carefully suppressed feelings coming to the surface in the middle of a murder scene or a dinner party at a make-believe case.

 _I still can’t believe she’s dating him, though. The sheets are barely cold from our relationship and he’s taken up with someone else. A woman, no less. My_ cousin _. What does he think he’s playing at?_

A fleeting imagine of Sherlock entangled in silk bed sheets, all long limbs and pale flesh, rose in his mind. Hazy, out of focus at the edges, an illusion, an almost-memory.

He took a long breath. Released it slowly.

This weekend could not be over soon enough.

_End Chapter 3_


	4. It All Started with the Severed Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Murder Mystery gets underway with cocktail hour and dinner, and John finds that his role of jilted lover lets him say things he's really always wanted to say anyway.

4

As Sherlock had predicted – no, not predicted. Stated. _Deduced._ As Sherlock had deduced, John was seated next to Anton Thatcher at dinner. _Between_ Thatcher and Readington, actually, though James Readington was twenty-five years his senior and was clearly their hostesses’ companion for the weekend. Thatcher was fortyish, entirely affable, and, like John, a veteran of the Afghan war. In real life, that is. The guests kept bungling up their real selves with their roles in this little drama. Well, that was inevitable, really. Their note cards hadn’t given them enough to fill in all the holes, and most filled in with tidbits from their real lives.

Which John appreciated. Thatcher, along with having impeccable manners, – John took all his social cues from him rather than glancing sidelong down the table at Sherlock every time he had to choose a utensil – was interesting and agreeable. He was clearly of an entirely different social class, but their shared military service leveled the playing field a bit.

Playing field. John flaked off a bit of fish and glanced at Thatcher’s hands. Impeccable grooming went with the impeccable manners. No wedding ring either. No talk of a spouse or partner of any kind. Was it a coincidence that the man was built rather like Sherlock and had a head of curly dark hair? 

“What do you do when you’re not attending Murder Mystery weekends?” John asked.

“You’re going to laugh.”

John perked up. “Am I?”

“I’m a consulting architect.”

John laughed. “You sound like someone I know.” _You look like him, too._

“I specialise in historical preservation.”

“Really? What got you interested?”

“Windsor Castle – after the fire. I was in school still, on a summer internship with Donald Insall and Associates – the firm contracted for the restoration. It was amazing – really.”

“I imagine,” said John, thinking suddenly of Sherlock wrapped in a sheet in Buckingham Palace. He nearly choked on an asparagus spear.

“So, how long have you known Mrs. Ives P?”

John glanced at Anton and gave a wry smile.

“I just met…oh.” He grinned and patted his jacket pocket where he’d stuffed his folded role card. “She’s my aunt. Mother’s sister. Which means I’ve known her all my life. You?”

“Neighbors.” He lowered his voice. “Really. Though it’s on my card as well.”

“”Anything else on your card I should know about?” John asked.

Anton grinned. “No, but it doesn’t take a detective to know what she has in mind, does it?”

John shook his head and grinned back, thinking that it actually had taken a detective to apprise him of the deliberate nature of the guest list.

A shrill laugh from the end of the table had several heads turning. Hortensia covered her mouth and shrugged an apology. She was seated between her partner and Sherlock, on the opposite side of the table near the foot. Sherlock himself sat near the foot of the table, with Annabelle beside him and directly across from Hortensia.

Annabelle had been the real surprise.

Upper crust education. Smartly dressed. Beautiful smile. Funny as hell, too. During cocktail hour, she’d had John laughing so hard at her imitation of Sherlock as a teenager that John had forgotten he was supposed to be Sherlock’s ex-lover who was mad as hell that Sherlock Holmes had come crashing into his aunt’s weekend party.

Sherlock had reminded him, though.

“Friends, then, John?” he’d said, reaching out his hand.

John had instinctively started to extend his own hand when he remembered his role.

“I don’t think so,” he’d said, managing a snobbish intake of air through his nose as he glared at Sherlock. “I can’t believe Auntie invited you.”

Annabelle had practically snorted when he called her mother ‘Auntie.’

“Last minute stand-in,” Sherlock had explained. “Mr. Readington’s wife died last week. Rather mysteriously.”

“You’re making that up,” John hissed as they all turned to see the portly Mr. Readington on the arm of Mrs. Ives P’s chair, practically reclining in her lap.

“Boys,” warned Susanne, Hortensia’ partner – and, not coincidentally, the horse trainer Sherlock had spoken of a few days ago, the one that had taken an interest in the older daughter. She was taking the party – and her role in it – quite seriously. “This is _important_ to Mother Ives-P. We all agreed, didn’t we? To pretend – for her.”

“Well she didn’t take my feelings much into account, did she?” John said. “Why would she invite me when she knew _he_ was going to be here?” He turned to Annabelle. “And I can’t believe _you_ , Annabelle! He’s shite – he’ll stab you in the back just like he stabbed me. He doesn’t even like _women_!”

“He likes _me_!” Annabelle retorted, hanging on Sherlock’s arm and giving John a smug smile. “And for not liking women, he does a damn good job in bed!” She gave John a glare that would have scared him a bit if it were real. “He’s insatiable. And such a considerate lover. Perhaps his last partner was…inadequate.”

“That’s it!” Susanne beamed at them. “Very in character. I’d say you two should have a regular row later on. Mother would so enjoy it.”

“Might be best to leave out the sex part, though,” muttered John, glancing at Sherlock, who was not paying the least bit of attention to the conversation.

“What if I burst out that I’m pregnant?” Annabelle whispered. “It’s not on my card but don’t you think it would be a lovely little detail?”

Sherlock, who’d been watching Readington flirt with Mrs. Ives-P, whirled his head back to them. He looked vaguely stunned. It was an amusing look of him, John thought, but not particularly a good one. John filed that one away. _Ways to get Sherlock’s attention – 1. Tell him he’s going to be a father._

“It’s a fantastic idea, isn’t it, Sherlock?” Annabelle beamed at him.

Sherlock blinked. He was clearly trying to get his mind around the acting involved in this new twist.

“Oh, it’s excellent,” John replied. “Sherlock, think of it! You’ll have a placenta to take home and put in the fridge.”

Sherlock’s face actually brightened. John could have kicked himself in the head. Everyone was staring at him. _Everyone._ No one seemed to notice that Sherlock actually _liked_ the idea. He salvaged the conversation by slipping back into the jilted boyfriend role. “I’d think twice before moving in with him, Annabelle. The refrigerator will be full of body parts – just a little hobby of Sherlock’s. He picks them up from the morgue.”

They all laughed. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. John glared back at him.

Did Sherlock even realise John’s claim was too outlandish to believe?

Now, making his way through more of the perfectly lovely fish and asparagus, John glanced down to see Annabelle in profile.

What the hell was Mrs. Ives P playing at?

Annabelle was everything he’d said – smart, witty, educated, well-dressed.

But she was also short and compact with sandy hair in a sensible style. Boyish, athletic. 

She looked like him. 

Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III had wanted Sherlock to marry Annabelle. But Sherlock hadn’t wanted Annabelle. Hadn’t wanted anyone, really. Only she _thought_ he wanted John. Thought he _had_ John, in fact. And from a distance, wearing similar clothing, John and Annabelle might easily be mistaken for each other.

He glanced again to his left, at the long, well-manicured fingers holding the knife and fork above the plate. At the cuff of the tailored shirt extending just past the jacket sleeve. 

Those hands were almost achingly familiar.

“Do you play a musical instrument?” John asked.

“Cello. One of my true loves. We’re having a bit of a concert later, in fact. Why do you ask?” Anton answered. “Do you play?”

“No.” John swallowed, looked up, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him but refusing to meet them. “I have a bit of experience listening, though. I’m a good audience.”

“Ah. Right.” Anton now glanced down the table toward Sherlock. He lowered his voice. “I hear he’s quite gifted. Annabelle plays violin as well. I’m told they used to play together when they were young. Always a bit of a competition between them.”

“Right. I suppose I should know that – being her cousin and all. I’m sure I sat through at least a half a dozen recitals.”

Anton chuckled. “Hard to keep it all straight, isn’t it?” He lifted a heavy crystal goblet and sipped his water. The man was all grace and manners and quite good conversation. “Isn’t the investigator usually brought in _after_ the murder?” he asked.

“Oh, she’s mixing it up, isn’t she?” The woman to the left of Anton, Mrs. Biffle – Beatrice, John remembered – exclaimed. Her excitement excused her cutting into their conversation. She leaned around Anton and addressed John directly. “I mean, you just don’t expect a murder to happen when Britain’s most famous consulting detective is actually sitting at the table!” She smiled at him fondly and, slipping out of her dramatic role rather dramatically, spoke in a stage whisper. “ _And_ his better half. I just adore your blog, Dr. Watson. I can’t tell you how excited I was to be included in this weekend. Our friends are so envious.” She turned to her husband, who looked very much like he’d rather be home watching football on the telly. “Aren’t they, dear?”

“Of course, Bea,” he answered obediently.

“Is the murder going to happen while we’re _eating_?” asked Anton. He chuckled, looking at his nearly empty plate. “If the food was poisoned, I’m out of luck.”

John grinned. He glanced at their hostess, but she was speaking animatedly with the Parkers. “Sherlock’s probably solved it already,” he said.

“Has he, now?” James Readington, seated on John’s right, took a sudden interest in the conversation. “I’m told the script doesn’t even indicate who the victim is.”

John shrugged. Something about the way Readington spoke bothered him. He slipped back into his role. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Haven’t seen the bastard in several months and last time I did, I found out there was a lot more than scripts he wasn’t sharing with me.”

Anton grinned and Mrs. Biffle smiled broadly, clearly pleased with the play acting and eager to carry it along further.

“Oh, do tell, John!” she said, lowering her voice. 

Oh, what the hell. It was a game, wasn’t it? All of this? A weekend charade for a group of people who seldom if ever saw the kind of excitement he and Sherlock got into on a near daily basis. It nothing else, it would make for good blog material.

“Well,” he said, shooting Sherlock a smug look. Sherlock caught it, narrowed his eyes, and frowned at John. “It all started with the severed hand in the refrigerator….”

_End Chapter 4_


	5. After Dinner Entertainment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dinner, the guests gather for the evening's entertainment - a performance by violin, cello and piano, and a murder.

5

Thirty minutes later, John was settled comfortably on a plush love seat beside Anton Thatcher. The Biffles – Beatrice and Earl, John reminded himself – occupied the sofa facing them, and half of the Mr. and Mrs. Parker team – Henry Parker – stood beside Earl Biffle, debating rather loudly some point of politics in which no one else was interested.

The port was good. It wasn’t John’s favorite drink, by any means. But it seemed to go well over the satisfying meal in his belly. 

Sherlock was holding a drink he hadn’t touched, managing to look both impatient and bored. Mrs. Ives-P held his arm possessively as they stood in a little knot of people near the piano. John had noted the violin case on the piano moments after they’d entered the room after dinner, and the larger case, a cello, no doubt, leaning against the wall beside the window.

He wished they’d just get on with the murder.

He wished he didn’t know the murder was to happen soon.

But how could it not? This was the last gathering on the schedule for the night, and Sherlock couldn’t solve a murder before it was actually committed.

Well, he _could_ , of course. He just wasn’t going to here, seeing as he was committed to an entire weekend, and John had posted only one of the four required blogs.

He grinned into his drink. Odds were good that Sherlock had checked the entry on his mobile already. John would have to surreptitiously check comments soon. No – wait. He’d filtered the entry. Wouldn’t want his usual fan base to read about Sherlock jilting him and going back to his childhood sweetheart.

A childhood sweetheart who hadn’t really been his sweetheart but who looked remarkably like John might have looked had he been born a woman.

That was just…disturbing.

Maybe he was the only one who saw it. 

Coincidence.

But there were no coincidences. Not in his experience, anyway.

“Everyone, everyone!” Mrs. Ives-P. called from across the room. “Gather round the piano. We’re to have a recital.”

The knot of people around her had loosened a bit. Hortensia and Susanne were sitting together on the piano bench. He didn’t see the Parkers, but Mr. Readington stood on the other side of Sherlock, holding Sherlock’s arm with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. Sherlock looked annoyed. 

They all stood. Anton went over to his cello case, removed his jacket and draped it on a chair, and Annabelle picked up the violin. John found himself standing beside Susanne, who had moved from the piano bench so that Hortensia could warm up. 

“Does Sherlock still play?” she asked, smiling vaguely, not looking at him.

“Yes,” John answered, only just remembering to stay in character. “Usually in the middle of the night when the rest of the building would rather be sleeping. You’ve heard him, then?” He wondered if the family’s horse trainer had sat in on the intimate recitals.

“Unfortunately, no. But I’m told he played beautifully when he was a boy,” she replied in the low voice she used when she broke character. She raised her voice then. “Hortensia says her sister is mad for him.”

“She’d better be,” John replied. It was easy, for some reason, to stay in character once he’d gotten started. “Seeing as he’s not mad for anything but his work. One of them should have a bit of passion in the relationship.”

Susanne grinned. “Oh, you’re good, John,” she intoned, voice low again. “Very good. One would almost think you were jealous.”

He shook his head. “I’m better off without him,” he said. He glanced at Anton as he sat down with his cello. “Besides, there are other fish in the sea.”

“Anton?” Susanne smirked. “Mother Emily picked him out especially for you. She thought he might turn your head. She was absolutely giddy when she had the idea.”

Oh, this was getting utterly ridiculous. 

The musicians started up then. They’d obviously practiced together, and John’s eyes were drawn first to Annabelle, head bowed over her instrument. And while the piece was flawlessly executed, as much as he could tell with his rather pedestrian knowledge of music, the figure she cut while playing was so unlike Sherlock’s, so dissimilar to everything that John had come to associate with the violin, that for a moment he wondered if she were even playing the same instrument.

And in that moment, he understood that Sherlock didn’t play the violin.

Sherlock _was_ the violin.

Or better said, Sherlock was the music.

He turned his head, instinctively looking for Sherlock, the epiphany so overpowering that he was compelled to seek him out.

Sherlock was not watching Annabelle or her violin. He really didn’t make a very convincing boyfriend.

And he wasn’t watching John.

Sherlock’s eyes were on the cello.

John followed his gaze and saw what Sherlock saw.

Anton Thatcher, making love to his instrument.

Intimate in a different way, like the violin but unlike it. Held between his legs, bow longer, larger, gestures greater, more sweeping. A more powerful act, a deeper voice.

John knew then, at that moment, that Sherlock was not enjoying the recital. He was not listening to the music. He had no idea that a violin and a piano were accompanying the cello.

He did not applaud with the others when the piece ended. John gave him a death glare – completely in character, of course – and went forward to congratulate the players, letting Anton pull him into a half hug from his offered handshake, knowing Sherlock was watching him.

Jesus but they made a convincing ex-couple.

The entire party was exclaiming over the performers, over Anton in particular. 

John eyed Annabelle’s violin where it rested on the piano.

In for a penny….

He raised his voice.

“I’ve heard Mr. Holmes plays the violin.”

Mrs. Ives-P nearly bubbled over with enthusiasm.

“Sherlock! Oh, what a treat! You absolutely _must_! It’s been so, so long. Annabelle – do convince him, won’t you?”

She went to the piano herself, lifted the violin and presented it to Sherlock, who took it with very little reluctance. 

John knew he didn’t need a bit of convincing, but he’d take some all the same. 

Annabelle was pressing the bow at him now, and the rest of the guests were applauding, urging Sherlock to play. Anton, a good deal more gracious toward Sherlock than Sherlock had been toward him, stood beside John as Sherlock tested the instrument.

“He’s good, is he?”

Sherlock looked up then, bow poised, and caught John’s eyes, then moved his gaze deliberately to Anton.

He raised his bow.

“Oh yeah,” John said, eyes still on Sherlock. “He’s good.”

It was an unfamiliar piece, not that John could have named it even if it were familiar. Sherlock seldom played anything John could name. 

Sherlock had manic pieces, and melancholic pieces, and mournful pieces, and celebratory pieces. There was music to cure insomnia, and music to induce it. There were times when John walked into the flat, paused and listened to the violin, then turned around and left without climbing the stairs, knowing from the music that Sherlock would not be good company.

But this piece – this piece was a seduction.

He definitely had everyone’s attention. John’s mouth dropped open, just a bit, enough for him to wet his suddenly dry lips. Mrs. Ives-P grasped Annabelle’s hand and smiled broadly. Susanne leaned into Hortensia and whispered something into her ear. Mrs. Parker dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

Anton stood very still beside John, watching as Sherlock closed his eyes and lost himself in the piece.

John had watched Sherlock play hundreds of times over the years of their friendship, but he’d never heard him play outside of 221B, and never for an audience like this. It surprised him that the Sherlock playing now was the same Sherlock who played in front of the window at 221B. He wasn’t really performing for an audience. He was playing for himself, and it was as honest a portrait of Sherlock as any of this crowd had ever seen, though they undoubtedly didn’t know it.

“Lucky bastard,” Anton murmured as Sherlock finished.

John glanced over at him and smiled. “Not so much, actually,” he said with a shrug.

Anton raised an eyebrow.

“Then he’s available?”

“Not so much,” muttered John.

Anton laughed. John blushed. Sherlock looked over at them from across the room where he was handing the violin back to Annabelle and accepting the praises of the Parkers and of their hostess, who was holding tight to James Readington’s arm. Sherlock’s gaze moved slowly from John’s face, to Anton’s.

“I think I’ll go let him know how much I enjoyed his performance,” said Anton, moving away from John with a not-so-accidental brush of hands.

John watched him make his way over to a now composed looking Sherlock. Now that the evening’s entertainment was over, John wondered when they’d get on with the real action. 

Murder.

His attention was drawn away from Sherlock and Anton – Sherlock was stiff but, as far as John could tell, hadn’t yet offended Anton– by a maid who had entered the room and was picking up empty glasses. She looked a bit - well, twitchy. He watched her, sure that she was about to drop to the floor in a dramatic fashion, tray crashing and glass flying, when a man, dressed in household uniform, hurried across the room toward Mrs. Ives-P.

John had never waited so long for a murder to happen. In his experience, they happened all the time, all around him, and he just had to pick up his phone and read his text mes….

His phone chirped.

A few steps away, Susanne’s phone beeped.

The Biffles looked at each other as a sultry female voice spoke from Earl Biffle’s pocket. “Text message for Mr. Biffle.”

There were buzzes and whistles and ding-dongs and one reverberating sound of a gong striking.

John pulled his mobile out and swiped his thumb across to unlock it. He pulled up the text.

 _Bang Bang_.

He looked up and caught Sherlock staring at his own mobile.

And then the lights went out.

“Hey!” A man’s voice, close by. 

A giggle.

“What are you do…uhhhhhhhggg.” A man’s voice again, cut off in a garbled grunt that sounded much more real than it should.

It was pitch black. The curtains were drawn and the blackout thorough.

Someone screamed. Dramatic effect, thought John, staying rooted to the spot. Damn it was dark. 

A side table went down with a crack of glass and a crash.

A sickening thud. A long moan. Another scream. A third, stifled.

A crash of notes as if something had landed on top of the piano keys. “Hey – watch it!”

“I’m sorry! Someone pushed me!”

Someone grabbed his arm. “Is that you, darling?”

“The lights…Someone turn on the lights!” 

The blackout _felt_ real, but knowing it wasn’t, John felt like he was in the audience at a theater, a spectator of a play rather than an actor in a drama.

“Damnit!”

“Everyone, please stay where you are.” It was a strange voice – perhaps the uniformed man that had come in just before the blackout. “There’s been a power failure. We’re fetching candles.”

John brought up his flashlight app on his mobile and held it up. Sherlock’s soon joined his. Really – what was the point of going on with the power failure story? Couldn’t they just flicker the lights a bit and bring them back up so they could get on with the investigation?

After they discovered the body, of course.

“Stay back.”

It was Sherlock’s voice. Sure and commanding. Relishing, John was sure, the chance to call the shots since for once he found himself at the crime scene _before_ the police. 

John trained his light on Sherlock, who had apparently located the victim and was already crouching down over him.

A victim in formal dress. Not the manservant, nor the maid who’d entered just ahead of him.

Hmm. A twist already.

“John.” Sherlock beckoned to him, voice raised. “John, over here – let him through, please.”

John frowned. That was breaking character a bit, wasn’t it? Had Sherlock forgotten they were supposed to be estranged?

Several more mobiles were open now, and someone was carrying a candle toward Sherlock.

“What the…?” It was Anton. “There’s a body over here too.”

“Oooh! A double homicide!” Mrs. Parker cooed as she grabbed at John’s arm as he squeezed by.

He pulled away from her and dropped to his knees beside the first body, a man, recognizable by his girth alone as James Readington.

He looked up in surprise at Sherlock, who was holding the man’s wrist in his hand.

“He’s dead,” he said. 

“Of course he’s dead,” muttered John. “Bit odd to off her companion at her own party, though. She’ll be too distraught to appreciate all your brilliant detective work. What am I supposed to do here?”

“No,” Sherlock clarified. “He’s _dead_. _Really_ dead. No pulse.” His voice was low but his inflection normal. He might have been talking about the weather, or the explosion in the pigeon population on their block. He dropped the wrist and the heavy arm flopped to the floor.

“Oh no!” Annabelle was crouching down beside Sherlock now. “James!” John couldn’t tell if she was play-acting or really worried.

“I’m afraid he’s dead,” said Sherlock. 

“He can’t be dead. He’s not the….” Annabelle looked confused. “She had it all planned out. She never said – ” 

By this time, John had confirmed what Sherlock had already determined. Mr. James Readington was not breathing and had no pulse.

“Give me room,” John said. He’d probably had a massive coronary or a stroke, but as it had just happened, he could certainly try CPR. “Someone call an ambulance. And I need help – someone trained in CPR, please.” He shoved his cell phone at Beatrice Biffle, who was standing behind him, transfixed. “Point it at his face, please. And someone get the lights back on – this isn’t a charade anymore. Hurry!”

“Oh! This is so exciting!” Mrs. Parker, standing across from John and behind Sherlock, actually clapped her hands.

John hefted the dead man over with difficulty as Susanne dropped to her knees beside him.

Forget the CPR then.

A knife with a jeweled handle was buried to the hilt in his chest. His arm had been under him, perhaps grasping the knife, but it fell away as his body rolled over. There was blood – a good deal of blood, in fact.

And chaos.

Immediate chaos. Susanne screamed. Mrs. Ives-P, who’d been hovering over them, fainted, falling directly on top of the dead man’s chest. And Sherlock found himself in the unwanted position of comforting a distressed Annabelle. 

“I told her we didn’t need a _real_ knife,” Annabelle moaned. “And now he’s fallen on it and killed himself!”

John watched Sherlock pat Annabelle’s back awkwardly and sincerely hoped he didn’t choose this moment to announce that the man had been murdered. 

It took fifteen minutes to restore the power, and fifteen more for a contingent from the local constabulary to arrive. John’s self-appointed role during that time was to make sure no one else touched the body or the knife, for Mrs. Ives-P had already disturbed it by fainting on it and was now covered in the man’s blood. Sherlock, meanwhile, went through Readington’s pockets then disappeared to search his room before the constable arrived to muck things up. 

The second body – the maid, having an affair with Mr. Readington as per the master script– was not at all dead, despite the crimson stain on her chest from the fake blood, and was corralled with the other guests and the manservant into a drawing room across the corridor. Once an officer was appointed to guard the body, John was tasked with seeing to Mr. Biffle and Mrs. Parker – both of whom were hyperventilating and whose spouses were not as helpful as they might have been. Mrs. Ives-P, conscious again and still covered in Readington’s blood, was crying rather dramatically, her daughters hovering near her. John had already seen to the contusions on her chest from where she fell on the handle of the knife embedded in Readington’s body.

When the constable’s backup team arrived, Sherlock was forcibly evicted from the scene and escorted out to join the others in the drawing room.

“They took my mobile!” Sherlock complained, whinging low as John maneuvered his chair in front of Sherlock’s to keep him from bolting for the door.

“They took everyone’s mobiles, Sherlock. You’ll get yours back. Now sit still.” He glanced at the officer who was standing watch over the room.

“The inspector knows who I am,” complained Sherlock. “He _smirked_ at me. He told me to go sit down and wait with the rest of the _suspects_ like a good little consulting detective. He wouldn’t _listen_ to me.”

“Arse,” muttered John. He looked up and caught Anton staring at him. He shrugged and looked down. The uncomfortable silence continued. 

Sherlock was out of his chair, pacing along the rear wall in front of the window. His frustration was as palpable as his energy. 

“They’re wasting their time speaking to the others before me,” he said at last. 

Everyone turned to stare at Sherlock. He even had the officer’s attention now.

“Why is that?” asked Mr. Parker. 

“Because I know what happened.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at their guard.

“We all know what happened,” said Parker. “Readington tripped in the dark and fell on the knife.”

“Don’t discuss the case,” the officer warned mechanically, but clearly his heart wasn’t in it. He was obviously more impressed with Sherlock’s fame than his boss had been. He stared at Sherlock, then let his gaze drift over to John, his question unvoiced but obvious.

John leaned back in his chair and casually crossed his legs. He nodded at the officer. “He’s right. They really should talk with him first. If he says he knows what happened, he does. He’s never wrong.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Well, he’s never wrong about murderers and crime and such. He’s wrong about other things.”

“What? That your jumpers aren’t really hideous?”

“He’s not wearing a jumper,” Anton shot at him, annoyed. “And his shirt is quite nice.”

John glanced down at his shirt. The green shirt. The shirt Sherlock had gifted him on his birthday. Probably cost as much as the suit he’d rented for his father’s funeral.

“It’s nice because I chose it for him,” Sherlock countered. “John has dreadful taste in clothing. Don’t you, John?”

John closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“Does anyone else here notice that Mr. Holmes and Mr. Thatcher resemble each other?” asked Mrs. Parker, voice rather faint and trembling. “Are you related?”

“We look nothing alike,” said Sherlock. He was apparently determined to be difficult. 

“Actually,” piped in Mr. Biffle. “You do. You’re both tall and slender, and you both have dark curly hair. 

“That hardly makes us twins,” Sherlock scoffed.

“And nice looking,” added Mrs. Biffle. “I bet you have to beat the ladies off, both of you.”

“Though Holmes is a bit of a prick and Thatcher’s a regular gentleman,” continued her husband.

John, who had been looking at Anton, swiveled his head to stare at Sherlock. He hadn’t expected to actually _enjoy_ waiting to be questioned. But this conversation was entirely fascinating.

Sherlock bristled, ignoring Mr. Parker. “I’m at least an inch taller than Mr. Thatcher. My eyes are of an entirely different color. Our noses are of a different shape. He’s seven year older and of Hungarian descent. His hands….”

He was staring at Anton’s hands now, undoubtedly making the rather stunning discovery, one that John had made while Anton was playing the cello, that the other man’s hands could have doubled for his own.

“This is a ridiculous conversation and totally off-topic,” he said. 

“And you both play so beautifully,” said Mrs. Parker. “You really could be brothers, you know.”

“We’re not related,” Sherlock stated dismissively. 

“No, we’re not,” said Anton, forcing a smile for Mrs. Parker, who clearly needed some encouragement. “Not brothers anyway. I can’t prove we don’t share an ancestor somewhere in the past, though.”

“Do you really know what happened?” pleaded Mrs. Biffle. She looked very tired. “I’d rather go on believing he fell on the knife. He was rather clumsy, wasn’t he?”

The officer held up his hand. “You’re not to discuss this. I’m to separate you if you do. Not until after you’re all questioned.”

John turned his head as the door opened. Another officer arrived and beckoned to Anton. The manservant and maid had already been called out and hadn’t returned. Hortensia, Anabelle, Susanne and Mrs. Ives-P had been sequestered separately. That left just the two couples – the Parkers and the Biffles –and himself and Sherlock.

“I don’t look like him,” said Sherlock as the door closed behind Anton.

“You do. Stop denying it,” answered John.

“We’re not the same.”

“No one said you’re the same.”

“The cello….”

“Sherlock – just because he can play the cello and cuts a dashing figure….”

“Cuts a dashing figure?” Sherlock paused in his pacing. “ _Cuts a dashing figure?_ ” He stared at John, and John realised his mistake. Sherlock wasn’t about to challenge him on the truth of the statement. It was the fact that John had _noticed_. 

But not only that. He’d noticed, and made the comparison to Sherlock, acknowledging, to Sherlock, that Sherlock himself _cut a dashing figure_.

“Um. Right. You know what I mean.”

Sherlock looked away, entirely too smug . “You sound like a character in an Austen novel.”

Not surprisingly, John felt like one too.

“They’ve already decided that Readington’s death was an accident.” Sherlock murmured, surprising John by dropping the subject of Anton in favor of the other pressing thing on his mind. “He was the scripted murderer after all. They’ll assume he had the knife.”

“The scripted murderer? She told you? I thought you were supposed to _solve_ this thing.”

Sherlock stared at John. He had that look on his face. The look he wore when John was being obtuse.

“I did.”

John frowned, but nodded. Sherlock was good. The best. No one disputed that. “Go on. Tell me. If he didn’t fall on his own weapon, someone else must have had it. Someone else must have _used_ it on him.”

“Of course someone else had it. Think, John. It was a play – theater. The murderer wouldn’t be caught with the murder weapon this early in the game. It would upset the timing – the drama wouldn’t be drawn out long enough. However, to an outside investigator, it would seem obvious that the scripted murderer would have the weapon. The lights go out, he trips and falls in the commotion and impales himself on the murder weapon.”

John looked around the room. The Biffles were at one end of a long sofa, seated rather stiffly. Mrs. Biffle was crying, but quietly, dabbing at her face now and again with a white handkerchief. The Parkers sat in a pair of wing-back chairs in an alcove near the door. Mrs. Parker’s eyes were closed, and her face ashen. Mr. Parker was staring at Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” John began, turning back to face him and keeping his voice only slightly above a soft whisper. “What do you know?”

“It’s a play within a play, John. _Her_ play. You forget. I _know_ her.” He looked away, and John was suddenly reminded that Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington was someone Sherlock had known since he was small. Perhaps his first introduction to the deductive world of crime scenes. 

Someone who had killed her cheating husband twenty years before.

“Right. Of course.” He glanced at the officer who’d resumed his post beside the door. “So, it wasn’t an accident, then?”

Sherlock smiled tightly.

“Not at all.”

_End Chapter Five_


	6. A Pair of Murders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John return to their guestroom where Sherlock solves the case and John avoids difficult questions.

6

John stared at the door of the en suite, then at the bed, then back at the door again.

Sherlock had disappeared inside as soon as they’d been escorted to the room. The shower was running now.

They were staying. Actually staying here.

No one had been arrested. No one had been taken in for additional questioning. Instead, they’d all been asked to continue on as they had meant to go, to stay at the house since that had been the plan, to be available for additional questioning the following day. It had been a subdued group that had gathered around a flustered but brave Mrs. Ives-P when the police had gone, offering their condolences, muttering about the unfortunate tragedy. 

John was pulled out of his thoughts by a soft knock on the door. He opened it to find Hortensia standing in the corridor. She glanced into the room.

“He’s in the shower,” he said to her unvoiced question.

“Oh.” She fidgeted a moment, then smiled at him forlornly. “I just came by to see if you want separate rooms. Mother thinks she’s being so accommodating. Putting you two together like this. It took her some time to come to terms with me – and Susanne – but she did. Come to terms with it. But Anton caught me in the corridor a minute ago, and suggested that perhaps it wasn’t like that. Between you two, I mean.” She nodded toward the closed door.

John thought she looked like she wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed and not deal with rearranging house guests.

“You don’t need to be worrying about us tonight,” John answered. “We’re fine here. The room is fine.” 

Fine. What a useful word.

“Mother…well, she thinks the world of him, you know,” Annabelle said, looking at John with watery blue eyes. “I know she hasn’t seen him in years and years, but she followed him. She’s so proud that she knew him, that she got him started in his career.” She gave a small, bitter laugh and John was reminded that this woman’s father had been killed by her mother. How did one reconcile that? She glanced at John’s laptop computer, open on the work table in the corner of the room. “She’s a big fan of yours, too, John. She reads your blog religiously. I can’t tell you how thrilled she is about meeting you, about having you both here.”

John smiled. “I’m sorry- really – we both are, you know – about what happened.” He didn’t really think Sherlock was sorry at all, but this wasn’t the first time he’d lied on Sherlock’s behalf.

She returned his smile, though hers was sad. “Thank you, John.” She glanced at his laptop again. “Will you be…writing about it?”

He shook his head. “The constable was rather firm about that,” he answered. “Nothing while the case is still open.”

“It seems pretty cut and dry, doesn’t it? I told Mother days ago that the power outage was too dramatic, didn’t I? Even the two or three minutes she’d planned. I don’t know what happened with that, why it went on so long. And look where it’s gotten us! She’s understandably distraught.”

She glanced around the room yet again, then nodded at him.

“I’ll see you at breakfast, then.” 

Sherlock came out of the bathroom five minutes later, hair damp and tousled, wearing his maroon dressing gown.

“Do you plan on telling me who killed him?” John asked. He was sitting at the table now, staring over his laptop at Sherlock. “Considering we’re trapped here with a murderer?”

Sherlock dropped onto the bed and laid across it, on his back, head toward John. “Surely you know?” He sounded vaguely disappointed.

“You want me to _guess_?” asked John. It was a testament to the length of time they’d worked together that, despite his earlier statement, he didn’t seem overly concerned that they were sharing the house with a murderer.

“I’d prefer that you _deduce_.” Sherlock tilted his head over the edge of the bed so he was staring, upside-down, at John.

“Right,” John muttered, trying very hard not to stare awkwardly at Sherlock on the bed. He’d seen Sherlock stretched out like this – no, not quite like this – dozens of times. Maybe hundreds of times. On the sofa. Stretched out past its limitations, head resting on one padded arm, feet on the other, arms crossed over his chest or held steepled before his face. In this very same dressing gown, even. 

So why was this altogether different? It was a bed. Just a _bed_

Narrow white column of neck. Dark damp curls on the cream-coloured duvet.

He’d recognised a very long time ago that Sherlock was attractive. He’d told himself that thinking someone - _Sherlock_ \- attractive didn’t mean he was attracted to him. He’d argued that point with Harry, once, but she’d laughed at him, and said he was perfectly ridiculous, and he’d tried to keep that door closed over the ensuing years. With Harry. And especially with Sherlock.

Not because Sherlock was a man. He’d felt that same pull of attraction only hours ago with Anton. Had felt it back in Uni more than once, had acted on it a time or two. Years ago. 

No, because Sherlock was Sherlock. His friend. _Best_ friend. And he liked what they had. Liked it very much. This – this friendship. 

And Sherlock had told him, right off, that first day, that he was married to his work. 

Well, in that vein, marriage had worked out better for Sherlock than it had for John. He’d tried his hand at marriage while Sherlock was – away. It had fallen to pieces when Sherlock returned, slowly but surely crumbling as his loyalties were tested.

He shook himself mentally.

Right. Murderer. Deduce. 

“I assume we’re throwing out the obvious – that he fell on his own knife? Yes?” He gave Sherlock a tired grin in response to Sherlock’s eye roll. “Well, whoever killed him did it in complete darkness, so would have had to be close to him when the lights went down, and very familiar with the room’s layout. Someone who could navigate it in the dark – who had navigated it in the dark before.”

Sherlock’s upside down face smiled. “Go on.”

“They could have stood behind him, and silenced him with a hand over his mouth. In that scenario, I’d say it would have to have been someone strong, with military training, or assassin tendencies.” He paused, frowning. “Since nearly everyone in the room was smaller and less strong than Readington, that scenario only works if it’s someone he knows and recognizes. Whose hand over his mouth would be considered more of a flirt than a threat.”

He didn’t like where this was leading. Sherlock just stared at him, silently beckoning him to get on with it.

“Well, it seems more likely they stabbed him from the front. They’d have had to be very sure of themselves. If they hadn’t succeeded in killing him, he may have been able to identify his attacker.” He stopped speaking, thinking of the crime scene. “There’d have been blood – on their hands at least. Possibly on their clothing.”

“Gloves.”

“Not much opportunity to put them on,” John said.

“Already on. Perhaps the murderer had his hands in his pockets. Might have been latex. Flesh colored. Unobtrusive. Who did the crime, John?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this – Mrs. Ives-P?”

Sherlock stared. Blinked slowly. John knew he’d gotten it right. 

“Motive?”

“No idea.”

“Then why did you suggest her?”

“She’s proven she’s capable of murder. She could get close to him physically without making him suspicious. She knew the room, could navigate around it in the dark. He was an arse and a half.”

Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach and propped his head up on folded hands, still watching John. “Obviously.”

“Do you know the motive?” asked John. 

“Lust. Greed. Wrath. SALIGIA.”

“Oh?” John raised an eyebrow and smiled. He’d been smiling around murder cases for so long now he didn’t give it a second thought.

“An acronym derived from the Latin names of the seven deadly sins. _Superbia, avaritia, luxuria, invidia, gula, ira, acedia._ ”

John closed his laptop and yawned. He looked at the bed for the twentieth time since they’d returned here not so long ago. 

“He _could_ have just fallen on the knife, you know.”

“He could have. He did not. One would instinctively try to catch oneself when falling. His hands would have been out to the side slightly, not held together in front of his chest.”

John could have argued. While Sherlock’s statement was true, it was equally plausible that Readington could have tripped and fallen heavily, though he admitted it was difficult to imagine him doing so while maintaining a hold on the knife. 

“I texted his driver’s license information to Lestrade and had him run a background. He had the results back to me before the police thought to gather up the mobiles. Nail in the coffin, figuratively.” Sherlock looked a bit smug at first, then he scowled. “Daft police didn’t even mention that I’d been in contact with Scotland Yard when they returned my phone. Do they understand mobiles, John? How people use them?”

John laughed. Before they’d returned Sherlock’s phone for good, they’d insisted that he unlock it so that they could check his recent calls. He hadn’t even argued with them. In hindsight, John knew that he was hoping they’d check all his communications, and discover what Lestrade had sent him about Readington. Case closed.

John yawned again. He was tired of playing detective. Sherlock obviously had other reasons to suspect that Readington was murdered, and that Mrs. Ives-P had done the crime.

“It certainly can’t have been premeditated. It would be rather stupid to plan and execute a murder when the world’s leading consulting detective was in your home.”

“How about self-defense?” asked Sherlock.

“Self-defense? He was trying to kill _her_? Why did you put me through these mental calisthenics if you think she killed him in self-defense?”

“You’ve already laid it out, John. She certainly wouldn’t commit a premeditated murder with the _world’s_ leading consulting detective in the house.” He emphasized the word world’s. It wasn’t his claim – but John’s – and apparently pleased him. “She didn’t seem unduly agitated before the lights went out. It would have been far easier – though less dramatic – to kill him while he was sleeping. Why were the lights out for so long, John?”

“Because Readington prearranged a longer outage so he’d have time to do the deed.”

“So it _is_ premeditated murder, then?”

John wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Sherlock. It hit him directly on the nose. He blinked in surprise. “You’re a berk.”

“You’re forgetting that we’re in the middle of a play, John. Have you considered that the scene between Readington and Mrs. Ives-P was actually an act gone horribly wrong?”

John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock shifted to his side and pulled out a sheaf of papers from his dressing gown pocket. 

“Exhibit One – the script. Scene Four. A pair of murders.”

“You really did have the script, you idiot. Did you lift it from his room?” John shook his head at Sherlock’s one-shouldered shrug. “So, she kills him in the script?”

Sherlock rolled back onto his stomach and nodded. He looked pleased with himself, and a bit admiring of their hostess. “Quite a twist, isn’t it?”

“Only – she really killed him? How can she possibly hide this? All the local constables have to do is read the script.”

Sherlock brandished the script again. “Did you look at this thing, John? It’s a carbon copy made on a type-writer. An actual _carbon_ copy. I’d say there are only two of these things.”

“I can’t believe you searched his room before the police got here,” John said. “No, strike that. I absolutely can believe it. But now you’ve tampered with evidence. You should to own up to it in the morning, tell them everything you know or believe, and leave it.”

“I already showed them the script,” countered Sherlock. “While they questioned me. I told them it was mine, of course, that I’d been given the only copy. The blithering idiots took it as more evidence that Readington fell on the knife while he and Mrs. Ives-P were setting up the scene. The script is quite clear - he kills the maid, then struggles with Mrs. Ives-P and falls on the knife and dies.”

“Why the dramatic faint, then?” asked John.

“She needed a valid reason to have his blood on her hands.”

“Right.” He should have seen that one. “What did Lestrade dig up for you, anyway?”

“James Readington was the nephew of one of Mrs.Ives-P’s first husband’s associates and worked with him the year before the murder. Are you ready for this, John? He went by the name of Jamie Reed.”

“And?”

“Unless I’m wrong –”

“And you’re never wrong.”

“Mrs. Ives-P’s first husband didn’t have a mistress. He had a male lover. Jamie Reed.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “Your brain needs its own Post Code.”

“There’s nothing more we can do tonight. I’ll confront Mrs. Ives-P in the morning.”

“In private?” John asked, desperately hoping Sherlock wouldn’t present his deductions during a full English with all the guests present.

“Of course. We can bring her in here, sit her in that chair, and interrogate her.”

“Hortensia came by while you were showering,” John said, not rising to Sherlock’s bait. “She offered me a separate room. Anton informed her that her mother was wrong about us.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted over to John’s duffle bag, which remained where it had been, open and in mild disarray. John had actually succeeded in distracting him from the case.

“Hope you don’t mind that I declined,” John continued. “She’d have had to have the maid get a room ready, or do it herself, and I thought….” He shrugged. “It was a lot of effort for her – considering.”

“Anton Thatcher informed her,” Sherlock repeated.

“Right. And I informed him.” John suddenly felt very crowded in the rather opulent and certainly spacious room. “He sort of asked.”

“He sort of asked?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. He was _interested_. This was odd. Very odd. “John, what, _specifically_ , did he ask?”

John could feel his cheeks beginning to flush. He resisted the urge to look away.

“It wasn’t a question, actually,” John muttered. 

“So he didn’t actually ask. He made a statement regarding the type of relationship we have, or don’t have, and you confirmed – or denied – it.”

“He made a statement which could have been a general comment that I perceived as a statement regarding the type of relationship we have,” corrected John. “Or don’t have,” he murmured, after a significant pause.

“John,” said Sherlock, a bit too softly for Sherlock. “What – exactly - did Thatcher say?”

“It was while you were playing,” John said. 

“Are you drawing this out intentionally?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. “For dramatic effect, perhaps?” 

“He said ‘Lucky bastard,’” John stood, not knowing what to do with body and limbs and facial features there in that chair. He went to his duffle and fished out his pajama bottoms and a clean t-shirt, then chanced a glance at Sherlock.

“Who?” asked Sherlock. John suddenly realised this was one of the longest conversations they’d ever had about something – well, something so personal.

“Who?” John repeated, apparently deciding that drawing out the already uncomfortable conversation was the way to go.

“Who’s the ‘lucky bastard?’” clarified Sherlock.

“Me.”

“You’re sure? He seemed to be getting on rather well with you. Perhaps I was the lucky bastard for having nabbed you.” 

John stood there, holding his pajama bottoms in one hand and his t-shirt in the other, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock remained reclined on his stomach on the bed, looking far more comfortable than John. John didn’t think Sherlock had any business looking comfortable discussing the _thing which was never discussed_. It was making John _jumpy_.

“I answered ‘not so much.’ To which he responded, ‘Then he’s available?’” 

John ducked into the en suite and leaned against the vanity, staring into the mirror. His face was tinged red from an obvious blush. Fine. Let Sherlock chew on that for a while. He’d shower away the embarrassment and get on with things. With sleeping. 

In bed. Next to Sherlock.

The knock on the door was more like a brush of knuckles.

“John?”

John closed his eyes and released a puff of air.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” he said, when the knock repeated. He sounded resigned, even though he tried for sharp. Trust Sherlock and his spot-on perception, burning need to _know_ , and absolute lack of social skills to not let this drop.

The door opened a crack.

“ _Then_ what did you say, John?”

“Can’t this wait? I’m in the loo, for Christ’s sake!”

“No. It really can’t.” Sherlock pushed the door open and stood in the doorway. He continued without missing a beat. “Thatcher said ‘lucky bastard’ and you said ‘Not so much’ and he said ‘Then he’s available?’ and _then_ what?”

John stared at Sherlock. He dropped his shirt and pajama bottoms onto the sink and folded his arms across his chest and tried to stare him down. It was all he could think to do while his brain ran in a continuous loop, trying to think up a witty retort that was as far away from his actual response - _not so much_ \- as he could muster.

“Why? Are you interested in him?” he said at last, after far too long a pause.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open a fraction. Better to say, really, that his lips parted briefly. He closed them tightly soon enough.

“You said that? Your response was ‘Why? Are you interested in him?’”

“No. I’m asking. You. Now. Why do you care what my response was? Are you interested in Thatcher? Because he’s obviously interested in you.”

Score one for John. Sherlock took the bait.

“Why would I be interested in Anton Thatcher?” Sherlock folded his own arms now but didn’t move from the doorway. “We have nothing in common, John. And you’re deflecting – this conversation was not about my interest in anyone.”

Oh hallelujah. Now John had ammunition for a side argument.

“Nothing in common? Did I miss something? You were in the room when he played, weren’t you?” John heard the pitch of his voice go up but was powerless to stop himself. “The cello? Looks rather like an over-sized violin? Sound familiar?”

“A great many people play a musical instrument,” Sherlock replied. “This does not mean we have anything in _common_.” 

John took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“Out,” he said. “I’m in the loo if you haven’t noticed.” He stepped forward and pushed the door closed, forcing Sherlock back into the bedroom.

“Wait.”

John turned on the shower.

“You don’t shower in the evening. Turn that water off.”

John sat on the edge of the bathtub and let the water run.

“You’re interested in him.”

John stared at the door.

“You’re interested in him and you’re jealous. Because he’s attracted to me.”

Fucking brilliant mind and it went totally to mush when trying to analyze _feelings_.

“I’m straight, Sherlock.” He shouted it, because the running water was loud and there was a solid slab of wood between them.

“You date women. You watch men. You can’t claim to be entirely straight, John.”

Sherlock’s words might have been muffled but John heard every one.

Sherlock pushed the door open again and stood just inside it. John started unbuttoning the green shirt. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, but Sherlock didn’t say a word.

“He looks like you Sherlock. He plays the cello like you play the violin – he makes love to it. He’s smart and witty and interesting and drop dead gorgeous.” He shrugged out of the shirt and draped it on the towel rack. He looked at Sherlock. “And I’m not interested in him.” He pulled off his vest and tossed it on the floor then stood, unbuttoned his trousers. “And I’m not jealous.”

He watched Sherlock’s eyes move from his hands on his trouser placket up to his face. Sometimes he wished he had a window into Sherlock’s brain, could see the neurons firing, the synopses connecting, could witness the moment when – facts having been processed and analyzed – a deduction was made.

He saw the result now, as Sherlock blinked. 

John let his trousers fall to the floor. He sat down on the side of the tub again, wearing only his pants.

Sherlock held his ground, even took half a step forward. “What did you say?” 

_What did you say when Thatcher asked if I was available?_

“If I tell you what I said, will you leave, close the door behind you, and let me shower in peace?”

Sherlock considered. “It’s after eleven o’clock.”

John stared. Right. He never showered in the evening. Scary how fast he figured that one out.

“Well?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

John met his eyes. “Not so much,” he said.

Four feet, five, separated them at most. It felt like a million miles as Sherlock took a step backward, then another, then pushed the door softly closed between them.

_End Chapter 6_


	7. A Heartbeat After You Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first kiss. The first something more.

7

Sherlock was lying on one side of the bed when John quietly opened the bedroom door twenty minutes later and walked over to his duffel.

He hadn’t turned down the covers. He was still wearing his house shoes. His dressing gown was loosely knotted. He looked settled, though not exactly comfortable.

He was staring at the ceiling, hands crossed over his chest in a funereal position. John hated it when he lay like that. It reminded him of things he didn’t like remembering. Of a phone call. A step too far. A fall. Of those missing years. 

John draped the green shirt over the back of the dressing chair with more care than usual. He folded his trousers and placed them on top of the duffel.

“Anton Thatcher assumed we are a couple. When you clarified that we are not – not in the way he assumed – he then expressed interest in me by asking about my availability. You, in turn, led him to believe that I am not available.”

Vest. Socks. He tucked both into a pocket of the duffel, then unwrapped the gun from a spare t-shirt.

“The obvious conclusion is that you meant to convey to Thatcher that I’m not available to him, or to anyone, because my work comes first. I don’t enter into the kind of relationship that he’d be after. I do not date.” 

He said the word date, not with the venom and distaste that John would have expected, but with a curious sort of speculation, almost as if he’d made a startling discovery.

“You’ve known me a number of years. We’ve shared a flat for more than three. During that time, you have not seen me engage in romantic or sexual activity of any kind.” He paused. John was only half facing him, still pretending to contemplate his duffel. He daren’t move. He knew that the slightest motion would distract Sherlock and his monologue would end.

“You, on the other hand, have dated eighteen women, plus those you saw during my absence. Of those eighteen, you slept with seven, five of those more than once. None of your relationships lasted longer than two months during the years we shared a flat. Your marriage lasted barely a year. Clearly, you have not found a partner who suits you.”

Sherlock was keeping tabs on his sexual partners? Even John didn’t know how many he’d dated, how many he’d slept with. He kept his mouth shut with great difficulty because Sherlock’s eyes were still open, still staring at the ceiling. He was not finished.

“You want to find this partner. You don’t date casually, despite the number of women with whom you’ve had relationships – sexual or otherwise. You _do_ things with them. You go to the theater, to dinner, to concerts. Your pursuit of a partner may lead to physical intimacy, but that isn’t the primary motivating factor.”

“I’m fine with sex,” John interrupted, because he couldn’t _not_ say anything anymore. “It doesn’t have to be anything more.” He walked deliberately around the bed then, to his side by virtue of Sherlock not being on it, and stood there, between the bed and the door to the en suite, and didn’t quite know what to do next.

“You watch men. You even watch Mycroft.” Sherlock said the name with the same derision he always used when mentioning his brother. “Your eyes don’t leave him while he’s in the room.”

“I don’t….”

“You do. But….” He trailed off, and John could only imagine the complex connections and associations his brain was making, processing, discarding.

“You watch him too.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said with an irritated puff of breath. 

John sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, his back to Sherlock. He opened his legs, lifted the duvet, and wedged the weapon between mattress and springs.

This would be a very good time for a fortifying drink.

“The data, John. I may have misinterpreted the data.” Sherlock steepled his hands again, then threaded his fingers together and flexed them. “All subjects are not equal. All _men_ are not equal. You don’t watch Mycroft because he’s a _man_. You watch him because you perceive him as a threat. You don’t trust him.”

“Do you?” John asked, sliding a knee up on the bed as he adjusted his body to face Sherlock.

Sherlock turned his head toward John and stared into him. “No.” 

“Mycroft’s an arse. We’re here because of him, remember? Charity auction?”

Something passed across Sherlock’s face then – a look John recognised but couldn’t name.

“What?” John eased the other leg on the bed and crossed them together.

Sherlock was staring at the ceiling once again. “Mycroft _is_ an arse, and a threat, and you shouldn’t trust him. But he isn’t a threat to you.” The fingers steepled again. “You don’t trust him because you perceive him as a threat to _me_. And that– that piece – is what I had wrong. What I misinterpreted.”

John wondered if his face was coloring.

“You are protective of me.”

John attempted a dismissive shrug. “It’s my nature.”

“No.” Sherlock frowned. John understood Sherlock’s discomfort. What he had misinterpreted, what he had failed to recognise, was the emotional side of actions and reactions. Trying to piece it all together without considering how John _felt_ wasn’t logical at all. “You are protective of _me_.”

“Alright. I’m protective of you. You need protecting. You’re rash, single-minded. You hyper-focus on things and get totally lost wherever you are. Frankly, Sherlock, you piss people off and make enemies. You’re too smart for your own damned good. No – that’s not it. You’re so smart you make other people hyper-aware of their own stupidity. And defensive about it!”

“You watch other men but not because you want them, or are attracted to them. You are measuring them.”

Sherlock was, impossibly, unbelievably, getting far too close to a truth so uncomfortable that John kept it buried under a thousand little lies he told himself every day. He moved to stand, unfolding his legs and turning to sit on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock’s hand on the small of his back stilled him. He froze in place, speechless, at the unfamiliar gesture. 

“Stay.”

The hand retreated and John stayed exactly where he was for the count of ten, then slowly, deliberately, lay back on the bed, arranging himself parallel to Sherlock.

He reminded himself to breathe.

He stared at the ceiling. Rested his hands on his belly. Did not look at Sherlock.

How could this end well? It had taken Anton Thatcher to awaken the sleeping giant inside Sherlock – the sleeping giant that John has assumed was not, in fact, sleeping, but rather in a persistent vegetative state. 

Not emotion. Sherlock Holmes had scads of emotion. It seeped out of his pores when he played, erupted from his body in the gleeful dance when he was called to a crime scene, bled from him when he was face to face with Mycroft, and for hours after their encounters.

But recognizing it in others? Acknowledging that others not only had emotions, but were _influenced_ by them.

“How long have you known?”

Sherlock’s voice was quiet, and to an outsider, might have appeared matter-of-fact. John, familiar with Sherlock’s voice all these years now, heard something more in it. Something hidden. Nuanced. Vulnerable.

 _How long_ had _he known?_ How long had he known that he didn’t like other men looking at Sherlock like that? That the women he was seeing would never be enough? That they would never make him feel – with all their caresses, soft warm breath, long-nailed hands on his cock – the rush of life, the surge of adrenaline, the heart-pounding madness of an evening spent on the streets of London with Sherlock Holmes?

When had he stopped looking for an emotional connection with any of them? When had he started pulling away as soon as they wanted more? More than sex? More than dinner?

When was the last time he had met one of this girlfriend’s parents? Her friends?

How long had he known exactly what Sherlock was referencing with only the barest fragments of verbalised thoughts?

John rolled his head on the pillow. It was extremely soft. It cradled his stiff neck like a gentle hand. The day’s events were taking their toll. Trust Sherlock to try to shake this all out now. Here.

“Do you really want to talk about this now? Here?” He rubbed his eyes. “Maybe in the morning?” He wished he was safely ensconced behind his laptop across the table from Sherlock instead of stretched out beside him on an unfamiliar bed. He’d always imagined that, if they ever came to anything other than what they were now, it would start with a fight. Sherlock would finally push him over the edge, and John would punch him in the face, on the nose, and Sherlock – stronger than he looked, much stronger – would grab his wrist and push him against the wall. John would lash out from there, kicking, and when they fell together onto the floor, rolling around and cursing, the first kiss would be almost accidental. The next would be desperate. 

What should have happened when Sherlock reappeared two years after his death. Which didn’t happen, though John ached for it, because he’d been standing behind Mary when she opened the door of their flat to the dead man’s hollow knock.

There were no soft pillows in his fantasies, or embroidered duvets, or contemplative, _thinking_ Sherlocks, freshly showered, smelling of unfamiliar soap.

When had Sherlock’s _soap_ become familiar?

Sherlock laughed.

Chuckled, first, then let out an undignified chortle. The bed shook with his laughter. John rode it out, turning his head on his pillow to watch Sherlock.

“John,” he said at last, when his laughter had subsided. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You were offered your own room – you could have been asleep by now in your own bed. You made a conscious decision to stay here. To sleep in this bed tonight. I think this is the perfect time – and place – to discuss this.” He turned his own head on the pillow now, looking at John. They were eye to eye, their height difference irrelevant on this horizontal plane. “This – ”He faltered, gestured with his hand in a non-committal, confused sort of way. “This – us.”

The last word was drawn out onto a sigh.

Sherlock tipped his head back on the pillow. John wondered if he was stretching out his neck deliberately, if he knew what that pose – vulnerable, trusting, so fucking erotic – did to him. “You’re not doing a very good job answering questions tonight. I asked how long you’ve known.”

Now John was the one laughing. He dropped back onto the pillow, shoulders shaking with it. “Known that you ruined me and I’d never be satisfied with a woman? With anyone else? Known that you make me batshit crazy and half the time I want to wring your neck but the other half I want to step in front of bullets for you? How long have I wanted something I couldn’t define and definitely couldn’t have?”

Beside him, Sherlock was still.

“How long have you known you loved me, John?”

The breath left him then, like a punch to the gut. Laughter died. His shoulders stopped shaking. The room was very quiet. 

“I’ve known – ” Sherlock picked up the mobile lying on the bed beside him. “Thirty seven minutes.”

Twenty minutes while he showered. Seventeen since. 

And he was still here.

“I don’t even know,” John said at last. Silence. Breathing. “No. Not true. I know.” He held out his hand, and Sherlock gave him his mobile. John opened a text message, typed awkwardly. He stared at the screen a long moment.

He hadn’t known. Not until Sherlock asked.

_\- A heartbeat after you fell. -_

He dropped the mobile on the bed between them.

And waited. Waited for the chime. For Sherlock to pick it up. Read it.

“John – I….”

“For being Britain’s only consulting detective, and having an IQ slightly higher than the national debt, you’re pretty damn oblivious.”

“I didn’t know you liked men.”

“I don’t like men.” John shook his head and turned onto his side. This was ludicrous. He was lying in bed with Sherlock Holmes. He was confessing his feelings via text message. He was staring into those eyes- no more than two feet separated them. “I like _you_.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, undoubtedly to clarify to John that he himself _was_ a man, thus invalidating John’s statement.

Only John was tired of talking. There was no way he could possibly fuck this up any more than it was already fucked up.

And Sherlock was so close. And his lips, from this angle, were just a bit pouty. John really wanted to shut him up.

He really wanted to kiss him.

John kissed him.

Later, he’d wonder if punching him in the nose would have been a more effective – if less enjoyable – way to go about it

He didn’t think about the kiss, or worry about finesse, or technique. A slight roll forward onto one elbow, the other hand sinking into Sherlock’s curls – a pleasure he’d only ever had before when checking for injuries – and pulling his head forward just enough.

No tentative kiss this. No question behind it. Lips pressing against lips, hand working through still-damp curls.

It would be impossible to say if he was more surprised by the groan, or the taste and feel of tongue. Of Sherlock’s hand on his neck, in his hair, of another hand on his back pulling him off balance.

He found himself, moments later, straddling Sherlock, knees pressing into waist while the kiss – the same kiss – went on. He had no real idea how he’d gotten into this position, but there had been more groaning, and more tongue, and either Sherlock had done a lot of kissing in his life – which was absolutely impossible – or he’d been reading up on it, or was simply a natural. He was already hard, and his pajama bottoms did little to hide his erection, but if his erection pressing into Sherlock’s stomach bothered him, he wasn’t complaining. 

Sherlock’s body beneath him felt exactly as it should. It was long, angular, lithe. His lips felt and tasted as inviting as they looked, and fuck if he hadn’t hit pay dirt. Sherlock was anything but passive – muttering threats and promises and moaning into John’s mouth, his neck, as he scraped stubbled chin over stubbled cheek. 

There was a moment when they paused, John’s face inches above Sherlock’s. They were breathing heavily – both of them – and staring at each other, and it was a sanity check, a mental _what the fuck are we doing here?_ , before Sherlock, who knew how to fight and what was a snogging session if not a battle for control?, threw a leg over John and rolled them, coming up the victor on top of John, straddling his thighs, pressing his hands against the mattress. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

“Are you sure you don’t want to discuss this in the morning?” John asked. He pulled a hand loose and looped it up behind Sherlock’s neck. “Maybe by text?”

“No more talking,” Sherlock said, smiling that pleased-with-himself victory smile that John had seen a hundred times, but never – never – like this.

John knew he had a shit-eating grin on his face. He didn’t care.

“Then shut up.” And he stretched up, and kissed Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock looked like he’d won the lottery. And John _felt_ like he had.

~

“We’re still completely dressed.”

John was on his back, utterly boneless. Sherlock lay beside him, also flat on his back. A bare centimeter or two separated them.

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him. He quirked an eyebrow. “Mostly,” he stated. “I’ve lost both my house shoes and the sash to my dressing gown.”

John raised his head just enough to have an unobstructed view of Sherlock’s feet. “You’re wearing _socks_.” He dropped his head and laughed. 

“Why is that funny?” Sherlock had the kind of smirk on his face that indicated that he also thought it funny but didn’t exactly understand why.

“I don’t know. But it is.” John laughed again. “We were snogging. _Snogging_.” He swept his hand down to indicate his mid-section. “That doesn’t just _happen_.”

“It didn’t just _happen_.” Sherlock shifted beside him. “You’re a physician, John. Surely you understand the physiology of orgasm.”

“It was good,” John stated, rather emphatically. “It was right.” He scrabbled with his hand a bit and found Sherlock’s. Their fingers intertwined. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. 

“It was frottage,” Sherlock clarified, and John pictured the look on Sherlock’s face the exact moment his erection had grazed John’s. He’d been straddling John, and John had pulled him down for another kiss, and the position had been perfect, the angles cosmically deigned, and while John bit his bottom lip, groaned and pushed _up_ , Sherlock’s eyes had fluttered closed and his mouth – his mouth had formed the most perfect circle, and the smallest, most breathy _oh_ had escaped it.

Their eyes had met before their lips, and there was a spark of surprised desire in Sherlock’s, and need, and a softness that John had never before seen as the mask of self-assuredness fell away, the intellectual _alertness_ succumbing to the physical, warring with the emotional. 

It was a good look on him, John thought.

They communicated silently, synchronised their movements. Camaraderie, years of covering each other’s backs, maneuvering in a flat together, had shown them that words weren’t always needed.

John came embarrassingly quickly, jerking his head back, away from Sherlock’s mouth, coming down slowly, one drawn out, pulsing throb after another. Sherlock buried his head in John’s neck, curls soft against his cheek, thrust three times, four, and shuddered, and melted.

They’d eventually rolled off each other, turned onto their backs, lay side by side while their hearts raced.

“You’ve never gone this far with a man,” Sherlock said now, moving their joined hand enough to brush John’s leg. “You’re messy and sticky and you’d like to go get a warm flannel and clean up. But you don’t want to get out of bed. You are enjoying lying here quietly with our hands joined. And you wonder at the protocol. Do you offer a flannel to your partner? Take turns privately in the loo after you’ve just rutted against him until you orgasmed? Bring back a flannel and clean him while he smiles languidly at you and wonders why he didn’t do that with you that day you limped into his life?”

John rolled off the bed.

“Stay,” he said.

He stared in the mirror first, unable to erase the grin on his face. He also couldn’t do a thing about the stubble burn and the hickey on his neck below his ear. He hadn’t had a hickey since Uni. He drew his finger down over it in disbelief, shook his head. He peeled off pants and pajamas, cleaned himself up, then pulled the pajama bottoms back on without pants. 

He held a clean flannel under hot water then wrung it out. He stared at the piece of cloth.

_Protocol._

He climbed onto the bed, then onto Sherlock, straddling his legs and dropping the cloth on the bed clothes. He used both hands to tug at the pajamas, sliding them over narrow hips, working the elastic carefully over the softened bulge.

Sherlock wasn’t wearing pants.

He seen plenty of penises in his years of communal showers and military bunks. He’d seen hundreds more in his career of treating patients. _Penis_. In his mind, he never used another word for this functional part of the anatomy that needed checking. Testicular cancer, STDs, hernias affecting the scrotum, older men with erectile dysfunction, younger men with painful tattoos gone bad. 

He’d touched them. Examined them, pushed foreskin back, held scrotal sacs, pressed against them, rolled them in his fingers, felt for abnormalities.

He lifted Sherlock’s now while Sherlock lay still, wiped his belly beneath it with the warm cloth, cleaned off the residue of their first lovemaking. Bent low and blew on the lovely, quiescent flesh and smiled as Sherlock shivered. Ran through a dozen words for penis that would serve him better, would separate the medical from the sexual.

_Cock._

Sherlock’s cock should not have been anything special. It couldn’t possibly be so different from any of the others he’d examined over the years, but it was _Sherlock’s_ , a part of him he hadn’t known before, and as such it was fascinating. It was long and slender, elegantly proportioned like the man himself, growing out of a nest of dark curls. He skimmed a finger along the shaft, swallowed a sudden rush of saliva, a desire to take it in his mouth. 

Sherlock’s hand closed around his wrist. His thumb moved along John’s pulse point.

John moved his gaze from his wrist to Sherlock’s face.

He was watching John intently, his expression almost winsome. 

He tugged at John’s wrist, more sober now, though the corner of his mouth twitched in that way it _always_ twitched, and John was suddenly reminded that this was _Sherlock_.

This was _Sherlock_ , he repeated as Sherlock kissed him again, as they wrapped their arms around each other and held on tight in disbelief.

This was _Sherlock_ , he reminded himself again several hours later, when he woke in a strange bed, tangled in expensive sheets, spooned against a warm and unfamiliar weight. There was an arm draped over his hip, a hand on his belly, quiet breathing close to his ear.

This was _Sherlock_ , he told himself at six thirty in the morning when Sherlock – fully dressed, eyes bright – straddled him, kissed him awake and said:

“Get dressed. I have a plan.”

_End Chapter 7_


	8. Mycroft has Always Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning comes, as it always does, and Sherlock and John confront Mrs. Ives-P, sew things up rather tidily and go out to see the bees and horses. Which turns out to be a very bad idea.

8

Sherlock had already been out, observing.

Observing that their host family seemed to have a keen interest in James Readington’s bedroom. Sherlock had been in the corridor near the stairs, sitting on a plush bench looking at his mobile, when Hortensia and Susanne had come up the stairs quietly and turned down the passageway toward the man’s room. They’d stopped when they’d seen Sherlock, however, and made a show of pretending they’d been distracted and hadn’t gone up to the proper floor above. Annabelle had come down the stairs five minutes later. Sherlock was still on the bench, and she’d paused, waved awkwardly, then continued downstairs.

Now, Sherlock’s plan was to watch Readington’s door from behind the cover of a very convenient set of draperies covering a windowed alcove. And he thought it would be a very good idea to have John with him.

Hiding in the narrow space behind the draperies with Sherlock had certain challenges John hadn’t expected.

They’d hidden together dozens of times before, under beds, in closets, behind furniture, pressed against brick walls in narrow alleys. But until now, John had never – ever – let his brain acknowledge that a potential sexual partner was sharing the very limited – and often dark – space.

And he was suddenly, irrevocably, undeniably aware that things between them would look, to an observer, exactly the same as they had always been, but would never, could never, ever, _be_ the same.

Somewhere inside him, some barrier had been broken. Pieces of his self, never meant to intermingle, were now shaking hands with each other, lifting champagne flutes to toast, bestowing one-armed sideways man-hugs. 

If they were hiding during a pursuit, they’d stand beside each other, tense, silent, hearts pumping, adrenaline coursing. On a stakeout, they would be alert, phones on silent, communicating by text message. They would be aware of their surroundings, aware of each other’s proximity, minds on the case, the chase, John’s on how the hell they’d get out of whatever they’d gotten themselves in to, Sherlock’s planning the next twelve moves, considering variables and dependencies, discarding and archiving options.

But a line had been crossed last night and now all the edges were blurry and all the knowns were in question.

They stood against the wall beside the window, Sherlock pressed against his side, and Sherlock felt soft instead of hard and angular, though it was the same Sherlock as always, and when he shifted lightly from one foot to the other, John wondered if he was sore instead of just assuming he was bored.

John thought that he might be inhabiting a different world, or a different mind space, but he was absolutely convinced he was when Sherlock suddenly whispered “I have a confession to make.”

He tried to process that. Sherlock did not make confessions. He did not make confessions because the whole idea behind a confession was to admit that one made a mistake, or did something wrong, or deceived someone, or hid something important, and wanted to bring it to light and clear the air. Even when Sherlock had returned from the dead, he hadn’t _confessed_ a damn thing. He’d explained. Justified. 

John mentally shook those thoughts away. He didn’t go there. 

“A confession?” John murmured. He knew he sounded suspicious. He’d learned, over the years of his association with Sherlock, not to take anything at all that came from Sherlock’s mouth at face value.

“An admission?” Sherlock corrected, but it was a suggestion, as if he, too, seemed confused over the proper term. He was whispering still, and his eyes were trained, through the small gap in the curtain, on the closed bedroom door.

“An admission.” John considered a moment. Oh. “Sherlock – it’s fine. You don’t have to explain anything. I –”

“Yes I do.” 

John sighed and shifted, rolling his shoulders to stretch them. Apparently, Sherlock wished to clear the air about his inexperience. 

“Fine. Go on, then. Confess. Admit.”

“Mycroft didn’t insist you come here with me. I made that up.”

Oh. Not at all what John was expecting. 

“You lied.” John stilled suddenly as he saw movement in the corridor. It was Anton Thatcher. He came out of his room across the passageway from Readington’s, stared at Readington’s door a long moment, then headed for the stairway without looking back.

“He doesn’t look a bit like me,” Sherlock whispered.

“He does, and stop whinging about it.” They watched Thatcher disappear down the stairway and stood quietly for a while. 

“Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t particularly want to come by myself. I thought it would be boring.”

“Alright then.” John reached for Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it. It was warm and dry. There was really nothing to forgive, even though Sherlock was horribly devious – admitting his deception in the morning after a night spent in each other’s arms, a deception that had brought about that most unexpected night. “Thanks for telling me.”

They stood silently beside each other for another minute.

“And don’t lie to me again.”

Beside him, Sherlock seemed – stiff.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” whispered John at last, giving in to his curiosity and, truth be told, boredom.

But Sherlock raised his finger to his lips, and John saw Mrs. Ives-P walking directly toward them. She looked horrible, as if she hadn’t slept much, but that didn’t surprise him given the events of the night before. Her face was puffy, her eyes red. She moved slowly, hugging one wall, appearing to be listening for signs of life from the weekend guests. She paused in front of Readington’s door, placed her hand on the door handle, quickly checked the corridor again, then opened the door and slipped inside the room.

“Ah.” Sherlock let out a very small sound. He waited a minute or two then stepped out of the alcove. “Shall we, John?”

John shrugged. “Why the hell not?” he asked as Sherlock opened the door.

Mrs. Ives-P throttled a scream. She was standing in front of a tall chest-on-chest, looking at something in her hand. A drawer was hanging open - she'd apparently been rifling through personal effects of the deceased.

“Sherlock,” she said, composing herself and closing the drawer. “I – I was….” She suddenly burst into tears, and sat heavily down on the bed behind her.

“Close the door, John,” Sherlock instructed, and John did as directed.

Sherlock held out his hand toward their hostess and she placed something on his palm without protest.

“Your first husband’s?” he asked, holding the ring up to the light. The red stone caught the sun and it flashed brilliantly across Sherlock’s face.

“How did you know?” Her voice broke and her shoulders slumped.

He looked at her sidelong but said nothing, continuing to examine the ring. He handed it back to her without comment. 

“Was there something else that tipped you off?” Sherlock asked. “Readington could have stolen the ring, after all.” He spoke calmly.

“No – well, yes.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “It didn’t register until I saw the ring on his finger. And I didn’t notice it until you were playing, Sherlock. I’d given it to Chester – my husband – on our tenth anniversary. He later lost it – well, he claimed to have lost it, anyway.” Her smile was forlorn. She turned the ring over on her palm several times. “I found a letter, you know,” she said. “I told your mother about it, all those years ago. It was from the mistress. She was thanking him for the ring. I had no idea – none – that it was _this_ ring.” She paused, sighed. “Or that she wasn’t a woman at all. Jamie Reed was a _man_.” She shook her head. “Chester was cheating on me with another man. And somehow, that made his…his… _indiscretion_ …worse than my own. This was all going through my head during your performance – the ring, and the letter, and the similarity of the names. I did my best to keep calm and carry on.” She smiled sadly. “I was going to ask you to investigate it, Sherlock. I was. I really was.”

John caught Sherlock’s eye and gestured toward the door. Sherlock shook his head. 

“I didn’t kill him on purpose,” she said.

John wondered if she was referring to her husband or to Readington.

“He was supposed to pretend to kill the maid, then I was to pretend to kill him. It was a twist, you see.” She laughed hollowly. “Two murders for the price of one. I was so proud of myself for thinking of that – I thought you’d never see it coming. Only – only he turned on me, tried to take the knife from me. Thank God he crashed into that end table or he might have had me. I stabbed him when he came at me again. I don’t think the initial wound would have killed him – but we both lost our footing and I fell against a sofa and tumbled right over it, and he must have fallen on the knife then.”

“He wanted to kill you,” said Sherlock. “He arranged for the lights to stay out longer than you planned.” John could see that Sherlock had some affection for Mrs. Ives-P. He was giving her the kind of out he’d not ever given any suspect John had known.

“He must have hated me,” she said, blearily. “For killing Chester. That letter – oh, that letter. There was so much _feeling_ in it.”

“He meant to kill you and escape while the lights were still out,” said Sherlock. 

John knew Sherlock didn’t really know that. If the man had killed Mrs. Ives-P and then fled the scene, he’d be the obvious suspect and a wanted man.

“Are you planning to turn me in?” she asked after a moment when no one spoke.

“You need to speak with the constable,” Sherlock said. “He’s already determined Readington’s death was an accident.”

The door had opened while they were talking and Annabelle had entered the room.

“You should do what he says, Mother,” she agreed.

Sherlock stood, and Mrs. Ives-P beckoned to her daughter, and Annabelle took his place on the bed beside her. She seemed relieved, and not at all surprised at her mother’s confession. The family had obviously been wrestling with the manner since the night before.

“John – stay a moment.” 

Sherlock had already slipped into the corridor, but John turned and stepped back into the room. Mrs. Ives-P nodded toward the door through which Sherlock had just stepped. “Did my little ploy with Anton work then?” she asked.

“Your ploy?” he asked, taking a step closer. Annabelle had her arm wrapped around her mother, but was smiling at John. “What ploy?”

“Oh, I could tell he was jealous,” Mrs. Ives-P said in a low, conspiratorial voice. “The way he was glaring at Anton while they performed for us. Mycroft thought it was a fabulous idea to invite someone quite dashing to pair up with you, though he admitted it might not be enough, so I put you two in the same room.”

“Mycroft?” John looked at his hostess. “That was _Mycroft’s_ suggestion?”

“Oh, no. Mine entirely. Mycroft approved, though. He said the unresolved sexual tension was so thick around you two, being in your flat was like walking through the London fog.”

John grinned.

“Well, thank you then,” he said. He rather liked this devious old lady, even though the thought of Mycroft discussing himself and Sherlock as potential sexual partners was nothing if not disturbing.

“What did she want?” asked Sherlock when John joined him in the corridor.

“To tell me I’m a lucky bloke to have you,” John answered. He intended to save up the Mycroft bit for when it was really needed.

“You are a lucky bloke,” Sherlock replied as they walked together toward the stairs. “To have me,” he added quietly, shaking his head slowly, as if the concept of _having_ someone was still a little too new to internalise. They paused together at the top of the stairway.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Sherlock asked John, keeping his voice low.

John laughed. “God, yes. I’d love to. But you do remember we’ve been ordered to stay? We’ll be stuck here for hours if Mrs. Ives-P tells them what she knows. They’ll want to interrogate you again after she tells her story.”

Sherlock sighed. It was clear that he put little stock in the abilities of the local police. “I suppose I could always go see the bees.”

“Brilliant idea,” said John. 

Sherlock turned toward him, eyes gleaming. “I didn’t realise you shared my passion for bees, John.”

John had absolutely no passion for bees. He’d treated one too many person for anaphylactic shock to be too taken with them. Sherlock had, on one occasion, deliberately gotten himself stung so that John would see that bees were not the killers he thought. “Well, I’d really rather try out the polo ponies.”

“Polo horses. They’re full-sized horses, not ponies. And John, you should have them start you out on a gentle riding mare.”

“Fine. Polo horses, then.”

“A gentle riding mare.”

John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock grinned at him, and John followed him down the stairs.

~*~

The last thing he saw before he hit the ground was the bottom side of the horse. It looked just as threatening from the ground up as it had from the top down.

 _Gentle mare my ass,_ he thought just before his arm, flung out beside him, smacked the ground with a _crack_.

John felt every single bone of his body as he lay on his back, breath knocked out of him. His head was woozy – concussion? Neck alright? Could he feel his arms? Fuck. Yes. He could feel his arms. And legs. He squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them as he finally sucked in a lungful of air. 

Everything hurt. Whose idea had it been, anyway, to get up on that monstrous creature?

Suddenly, Sherlock’s head was hovering over him. 

“All you alright, John?” He waved a swollen hand in front of John’s eyes. “I was stung. Three times.”

John smiled woozily at him. He was not at all interested in bees or bee stings at the moment. Sherlock could have bees crawling out of his nose and ears and John might not have noticed.

“He’s broken his arm!” said the horse trainer, who had come on a run and had seen in an instant what consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, in his bee-sting high, had failed to notice.

“You’ve broken your arm?” Sherlock asked, looking perplexed. “I thought you were fine. You smiled!”

“What happened? Are you alright, John? Oh Jesus Christ – look at his arm!” A woman’s voice – he thought Susanne’s – chimed in. 

John turned his head carefully to look at his arm.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Both bones. The thought of anyone untrained touching his arm was suddenly very alarming.

“John, you really should have stayed _on_ the horse. Or come with me to see the bees. Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” 

John moved his head to the side in what he hoped was a negative. “Need a minute,” he said. He’d been lying still long enough to know that his back and legs, though they ached, didn’t appear to be injured. His head hurt though – he’d have a good lump on it. He drew one leg up, bending the knee, then repeated the motion with the other, then made a fist with his left hand.

“You’re going to have to splint the arm to stabilise it. _You_ are going to do this – not the trainer or one of the others.” He let out a long, slow breath. His arm hurt like bloody hell, but he had his wits about him again. “Then I’m going to stand and you’re going to walk me to the car and take me to hospital – in London. Bart’s.” Susanne, who’d been standing back, took off to find something to use as a splint.

“We don’t have a car. We took the train in.”

“Then find a car, and someone to drive it. I’m probably going to need surgery to set this thing.”

John didn’t think he’d ever seen that look on Sherlock’s face before. “I admit I wanted to leave, but you didn’t have to go to such drastic measures. I could have claimed a reaction to a bee sting.” John hoped Sherlock was trying to make a joke. Sherlock’s smile told him he was, but his face held worry too.

“Don’t try to get out of coming with me.”

Something squeezed the hand on his good arm. An odd feeling of warmth came over him as he realised Sherlock had taken his hand. “Of course I’m coming with you.”

“And you’re waiting there – with Molly and Mrs. Hudson and perhaps even Harry and Mycroft. No matter how _boring_ it is.”

Sherlock protested the inclusion of Mycroft – naturally – but then Susanne returned with the Sunday Times and an elastic wrap and John was forced to grit his teeth and wince out instructions to the impromptu medics. With a towel as a makeshift sling and his arm fairly stabilised, and with Sherlock hovering over him like a drunken bee, John finally scooted up to a sitting position, panting to work through the pain. 

On the slow walk to the car, leaning heavily against Sherlock, he distracted himself by thinking of all the things he wouldn’t be able to do easily for the next eight weeks. Shower. Wank. Button his shirt. Hold his gun steady enough to aim true. 

He waited in the back seat, watching Sherlock out the window. Sherlock had hopped back out of the car and was talking animatedly with the constable and an officer, gesticulating wildly.

When Sherlock finally got back in the car, John, looking decidedly grey, settled heavily against him. He thought, briefly, that he would have slumped against Sherlock a week ago, a month ago, a year ago. Before this weekend. Before last night. But a year ago (a month ago, a week ago), Sherlock wouldn’t have settled his arm around him, and definitely wouldn’t have rubbed his chin on his shoulder.

“I hope you told them everything you know, because you’re officially off this case.”

“I told them.” Sherlock released a long breath. They rode in silence for five minutes.

There were unanswered questions plaguing him still – about the case, about Mrs. Ives-P’s motivations in trying to make Sherlock jealous of Anton Thatcher, of trying to push Sherlock and John closer together. He wanted to know what she gained from her efforts. But more than anything else, he wanted to stretch out with his head on Sherlock’s lap and fill his nostrils with the smell of his expensive cologne and pretend he wasn’t headed for surgery. But the car was small and modern and utterly efficient. There was barely room for the both of them to sit in the back seat. There was no question of stretching out.

“Mycroft has a car on the way,” Sherlock said into the quiet. “And something for the pain.” His arm tightened around John, and John sighed, and at that moment loved Mycroft more than he’d ever loved anyone, other than Sherlock.

“Do you care that he…?” he began, trailing off into an uncomfortable silence, making a gesture with his good hand that could have meant almost anything. Thankfully, Sherlock understood.

“Mycroft?” His gaze moved to the window, to the countryside slipping by. “Mycroft has always known.”

_End Chapter 8_


	9. The Rest of the Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally tells John why he owed Mycroft such a big favor, then conducts a very satisfying experiment.

9

The break was cleaner than he could have hoped, and he ended up in hospital only the first night – and that under protest. He could just stay at 221B, thank you very much, and wait for the swelling to go down there. Instead, he’d been put under observation for a possible concussion, and his arm on ice, and given some killer pain meds.

Sherlock stayed at the hospital all night, or so Molly told him when she came in to see him before work that next morning. He’d been a regular pain in the ass, with nothing to do save open drawers and cabinets he had no business opening, reading charts if anything was left unguarded, sleeping in the visitor’s lounge with his arse in one chair and his feet in another, then waking, wandering, staring at his mobile. Everyone had told him to go home. John was sleeping. John was sedated and wasn’t going to wake up and ask for him. John would never know he’d gone.

“He told me to wait,” Sherlock had said. 

And he’d waited.

“You should have taken him downstairs and given him a body,” John told Molly. “He could have dropped it off a horse and broken its arm and had a go of setting it himself.”

They’d put John out to set the bones that afternoon, but hadn’t, in the end, done surgery to add a plate and screws, and then sent him home that evening in a cast from wrist to shoulder. The extra-cumbersome cast was a small price to pay, he thought, for not having to have surgery and carry even more metal inside him for the rest of his life.

221B Baker Street was an altogether different place from the one he’d left two days before.

Once he was settled on Sherlock’s bed with extra pillows from his own bed upstairs, and with the bedside table serving as a medical dispensary, Sherlock disappeared for a few minutes and when he returned, Mrs. Hudson was with him.

“I’m going to the market,” he announced. “Mrs. Hudson has volunteered to stay with you.”

John didn’t know what to comment on first. That Sherlock _never_ went to the market or that he didn’t need a babysitter because he wasn’t going to leave the bed and go climbing on the fire escape or that Mrs. Hudson had obviously been recruited and hadn’t exactly volunteered.

“Alright,” he said instead. He was exhausted and nothing sounded better right then than taking a pain pill and falling asleep. 

Mrs. Hudson had already deduced from Sherlock’s behavior the previous day at St. Bart’s that Sherlock and John were doing an entirely different dance than the one they’d been engaged in for so many years. John could tell from a single glance at her face that she was brimming over with it but was playing the good soldier for the out-of-sorts Sherlock. 

“You do know where the market is, don’t you, Sherlock?” she called after him as he left. 

The response was an extra-loud slamming of the door.

She and John stared at each other a while, then John cracked a tired smile, and she sat on the edge of the bed. “Details,” she said. “I’ll be wanting the details after your nap.”

He fell asleep, grateful that she’d given him a short reprieve, and woke much later to Sherlock settling onto the bed beside him. 

“Time is it?” he mumbled as Sherlock stretched out beside him.

“Six thirty. Mycroft’s been by to check up on you. Bullied his way past me after Mrs. Hudson let him in.”

“What happened to his key?” asked John, grazing Sherlock’s cheek with sleepy fingers.

“That isn’t funny.” Sherlock shuddered. “He stood in the doorway and watched you sleep for a solid minute, then said ‘There are easier ways of getting a man in your bed than putting him on a polo horse.’”

“You said it was a gentle mare,” John mumbled sleepily. “Didn’t you?”

“Pain pill.” Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him now, holding a pill and a cup of water. John swallowed the pill and groaned. “And yes. It was definitely an old mare. Which is not to say that I am not responsible for your accident. I could have ridden with you instead of taking off to see the bees. Or insisted that you come with me. I don’t understand your irrational fear of bees.” He set the glass down on the table and curled up beside John. “How are you feeling?”

“Hmmm.” It wasn’t an answer. “Not as bad as getting shot.”

“Ringing endorsement for breaking one’s arm, then,” Sherlock said. “I’ve something else to tell you, actually.”

John rolled his head on the stack of pillows it was resting on until he could see Sherlock’s face.

“Now?”

“You have a puzzling instinct to delay every important conversation I launch,” stated Sherlock. “Yes, now. Because it may affect your opinion of me, and you may think I had no business doing what I did, especially as it involved Mycroft, but there’s really no sense in even having a brother who can pull strings and make things happen unless you actually take advantage of it from time to time.”

John’s foggy, pain-medicated brain tried to process the run-on sentence while he stared at Sherlock’s face. It was clear that he was irritated with Mycroft, and feeling somewhat guilty, but trying to come out on top of it all by getting whatever this was out in the open before John found out about it some other way.

“It’s about the charity auction,” Sherlock said. “You remember I owed Mycroft a favor.”

“I did wonder about that,” John said. 

“Mycroft did something for me. Well, for you.” He sighed. “For your sister.”

“For Harry?” John frowned, stomach dropping. “What?”

“She was picked up for driving while intoxicated. Several months ago, actually. She called me to ask me to bail her out – she didn’t want you to know she was in trouble again. Bail was astronomical. I asked Mycroft to intercede. It wasn’t her first offense, and the consequences were serious. Mycroft arranged to have the charges dropped if she agreed to go into rehab lock-up.”

John stared at Sherlock. “I thought she went into rehab on her own. I thought….”

“I knew she’d renege on her promise and tell you some day. I didn’t want that between us.”

“Between us.”

“John?” Sherlock raised himself up on an elbow. 

“You asked your brother – your _brother_ \- for a favor. For me. And in return you had to offer your services for a charity auction. _For me_. You despise your brother. You cannot tolerate being in the same room with him. You would never – ever – want to owe him anything. And you asked him to help my sister.”

“Well, I could hardly affect the judicial system myself. She was clearly guilty, had a blood alcohol content twice the legal limit, and had been arrested for the same offense two years ago. She’d have been in prison this time, John. You’d have felt obligated to visit her there, and – ”

“Sherlock,” said John, very quietly. He reached out again and brushed the fingers of his left hand against Sherlock’s face. “How long have you known?”

He couldn’t read the look on Sherlock’s face, but his eyes looked far-away, and he smiled at something that he didn’t share with John. He caught John’s hand, and laced their fingers together.

“Long enough.”

~*~

In the dream, someone was sucking him off.

There was the most delicious sort of suction, just exactly as he liked it, tongue but no teeth, the spongy head of his prick hitting the back of the mouth. Lovely noises, too. There was a heavy weight on his thighs, and a hand cupping his balls, a finger pressing on his perineum. He thrust a bit, not able to stay still any longer, and the suction tightened, and the fingers on his perineum moved to grip his arse. He sighed and stretched, reluctant to wake and chase the dream lover away.

But his arm was throbbing, and that more than anything pulled him into consciousness, where he promptly forgot all about his arm.

“Sherlock – what – oh Jesus Christ that’s good!” 

Textbook good.

Sherlock Holmes – the oral sex god? The man had never had so much as a date in all the time he’d known him and here he was, engaged in the most delicious act of fellatio John had ever experienced.

He’d never been this hard. There was no way – ever – that he’d been so fucking _aroused_. Every drop of blood in his body was racing to his prick, every sensation in his body centering on his groin. He was clenching his buttocks, biting his bottom lip to keep from shouting out, running his hand over Sherlock’s scalp, tensing his thighs, arching his feet. 

He was spurting down Sherlock’s throat in an embarrassingly short time.

Sherlock lay his head on John’s thigh.

“What was that about?” asked John, heart still racing, hand still working through Sherlock’s hair. 

“Experiment,” answered Sherlock. “Does your arm hurt?”

John laughed.

“No you bloody wanker, my arm doesn’t hurt. Come here.” He tugged at Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock crawled up beside him, and John found his mouth – his lovely mouth that said such ridiculous things, such brilliant, ridiculous things – and kissed it, and tasted himself on Sherlock’s mouth, and thought it much less strange than he would have thought. 

They fell asleep again, nestled together in the middle of Sherlock’s bed, and John thought that this thing just might work. And he wanted to ask Sherlock if this was all perfectly new to him – the kissing, the fondling, the sex, even the spooning together in bed. 

It didn’t matter. He’d been with others. Maybe Sherlock had. Maybe he hadn’t. But this. _This_ was new to both of them and as with everything else with Sherlock Holmes, it was bound to break all the rules.

_End Chapter 9_


	10. I Will Never be Bored Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock commandeers John's laptop and finishes his blog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt (really!) thanks to Book7BrokeMyBrain who helped me along with this story and who suggested a bit of Sherlock's point of view, which I've given you in this final short chapter. Merry Christmas to all and don't watch that mini-episode TOO many times...

10

September 22nd, Thursday

“The Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.”

You’re sleeping again, John, your broken arm resting on your stomach, fingers finally looking more like fingers and less like sausages. You’re wearing those ridiculous green and red pajama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt, and your feet are bare. 

An hour ago I was bemoaning the fact that there was no one to make me tea, and life was boring, and there were no new cases, and we had nothing to eat in the flat, and you struggled up from the sofa and knelt in front of me and insinuated yourself between my legs and all I could do was stare as you opened my dressing gown and balanced your arm on my thigh and said “Shut up, Sherlock” and took me in your mouth.

I will never be bored again.

You came to me on a day in May, you slid inside my life, you insinuated yourself under my skin. You killed for me. You nearly died for me. You took me back when I deceived you. You tolerate my excesses. You fill the shallows in my life. 

I thought I knew you. Knew every nuance, every hair on your head. I could predict your actions and reactions. I had read you, deduced you. 

I didn’t know you. I didn’t know the stretch of your muscles, the sinews in your neck. I didn’t know the texture of the scar on your shoulder, or the way your bum fits perfectly in my hands. I didn’t know how your cock hides, hard and needy, in the cease of your groin within your trousers. I didn’t know the sounds you make when you sleep, or the feel of your breath on my neck, or the taste of your mouth.

I didn’t know my name could sound like it does when you said it when I took you in my mouth – a prayer, an invocation, a promise, a benediction. 

In another life, another age, I looked at life and it was too big to consume, too much to grasp. I cut myself in two, devoting myself to my work. It was my life in every sense, and I allowed no room for more. It was enough, yet not enough. 

That it took a murder, a murderer, to push us into each other’s arms is hardly surprising, given the circumstances of our existence. 

I am the world’s worst consulting detective to have ignored the evidence at my fingertips, hovering in front of me, sharing my space. 

You cannot miss what you don’t know is missing. But there was a moment, lying beside you on that bed at the manor, not yet touching, when every molecule in my body was aware of you, when I _wanted_ what I didn’t have, yet I was paralyzed, incapable of movement. 

Paralyzed with want. With fear. With need.

No more want. No more fear. But need. Ah. _Need_. The sleeping lion is awake.

~~Why did you have to go and break your bloody arm? Think of what we might be able to get up to if you had full use of all your appendages.~~

Strike that. Perhaps you could just lie there and think of England and I’ll fumble my way through it, explore you like the exotic land you are, stake my claim.

In another day, my violin was my instrument and I poured into it all that I did not have, and those melancholy susurrations took the edge off my need. Now, when I play, it is a love song to you, a rejoicing. A sonnet to the Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Sleep, John.

~*~

The couch was not wide, but Sherlock was long and lithe, and he wedged himself between the back of the couch and John, and wrapped an arm around John as he was pushed too close to the edge.

“Finished my blog, did you?” John murmured as Sherlock pressed his head into John’s neck.

“I’d say so. Yes.”

“So you wrote up the Readington case?”

“I did not. You’re the blogger.”

“You’d better tell me how it ends sometime, then.”

“It ends with you falling off the pony.”

“Horse.”

Sherlock bit John’s earlobe.

“Alright. Gentle riding mare.” John signed and pressed back against Sherlock. “Your observation skills seem a bit off.”

“I was distracted.”

“You’re not going to give me up when it turns out I’m too much of a distraction?”

Sherlock’s arm around John tightened. “No. You will change your ways. Shower every morning so I’m not distracted by your smell. Sex only when we don’t have a case. Hands off policy if we are forced to hide in a cupboard. All bets off around Anderson and Donovan – you may manhandle me at your leisure just to give them nightmares.”

“And Lestrade?”

Sherlock smiled into John’s neck. “Lestrade knows. He’s always known.”

_End_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] The Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348048) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




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